


The Violin

by Golem_XIV



Category: Teen Titans (Animated Series), Teen Titans - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Crafts, F/M, Fluff, Music, Romance, Violins
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-28
Updated: 2018-11-03
Packaged: 2019-08-08 21:22:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 24,772
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16437032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Golem_XIV/pseuds/Golem_XIV
Summary: AU. Just a quick, fluffy and romantic story about a luthier (violin maker) and a violinist.





	1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer:**  I don’t own the Teen Titans.  Sniff.

* * *

 

He fell in love with her the very moment his eyes saw her walking into his workshop.

The small bells over the door chimed softly as she opened it and leaned hesitantly in, her head and one shoulder poking through as she examined the small workshop with a quick, interested glance, a delicate hand pushing the heavy metal and glass of the door back all the way to allow her to step quickly, almost shyly inside.

He turned his head and his eyes widened.  He recognized her immediately. Oh, he had seen her before many times, on the covers of magazines and on TV, to say nothing of YouTube and other Internet sites that were abuzz with news about the star violinist that burst meteorically on the stage, enchanting public and critics alike with her uncanny combination of faultless, nearly robotic precision and the deep passion that she could wrench out from the strings. 

But photos lied; her eyes were a deep amethyst, impossible to capture and reproduce by artificial means.  Videos deceived; they could not register the almost glowing quality of the ivory skin. Words were not enough; none that he had ever heard came even close to describing her stunning beauty.  He must’ve stared at her for at least a full minute, paralyzed, eyes wide and mouth open, forgetting even to breathe.

Her face flushed slightly at his reaction to her presence.  She was still uncomfortable with her new role as superstar and it always made her feel uneasy when people pointed their fingers and accosted her on the street, requesting her autograph and asking all sorts of intensely personal questions, questions that they wouldn’t dream of asking even their best friends, let alone a complete stranger.  And the journalists… She shuddered.

But his staring continued and her blush deepened.  There was much more in his eyes than simple amazement at a celebrity walking into the small, tidy but cramped workshop.

“Garfield Logan?” she made herself ask, trying to channel the situation back into a more common groove.  He did not reply, but at least his mouth closed.

“I’m looking for Garfield Logan, Steve Dayton’s apprentice…”

The mention of his mentor’s name finally made him snap out of it.

“Yeah… yeah, it’s me!  I… Sorry! You’re Rachel, Rachel Roth, right?” he said, finally recovering.  “I’m sorry, I was just… you surprised me! I never figured…”

Her blush faded as his reaction returned into more normal and expected territory and allowed her to pull out of her confusion.  Her severe eyebrows came closer together just a little and her full but pale lips curled ever so slightly downwards.

“You  _ are _ a luthier, right?  At least that’s what they told me, and what’s written on the sign outside.”

It was his turn to blush, which he did abundantly.  He sprang up from the workbench, his hasty movement scattering all over the tools and pieces of wood that he was working on, his hands trying unsuccessfully to catch the falling objects and failing miserably, the noise they made crashing to the floor registering only as a vibration against the pounding of his heart in his ears.

“I… I’m sorry, it’s just…  Yes, of course I am…”

His addled mind somehow found a way out of the situation.  He pounced at it, dropping down on his knees to pick up the fallen items and making full use of the opportunity to wrench his eyes away from her, taking deep but silent breaths to control his sudden disquiet.

“I’m… I apologize, I…  Just a second, please. You… startled me.  I have to clean up.”

“Sorry about that!” she said, her eyebrows coming together a just bit closer and her lips curving just a little lower.   _ Is he suggesting that this was somehow my fault? _

Her low, slightly hoarse voice must have revealed some of her annoyance, because the moment he heard it he tried to straighten up, forgetting that he was under the workbench looking for the strewn tools and working materials.  His head struck the bottom of the heavy wooden surface quite hard, the thump loud enough to make her cringe, the few items remaining on the workbench catapulted to fly all over the shop.

Her expression changed immediately to one of concern.  She knelt beside him and grasped his arm gently, helping him retreat from under the workbench and get up.

He rubbed the back of his head, wincing painfully.  Seeing he was all right, her concern vanished and a tiny, impish smile appeared on her face.

“Are you sure you’re a luthier?  You seem a little… clumsy.”

He grinned sheepishly.  “I guess I’m leaving an unconvincing first impression, right?”

Her smile widened just a little.  His heart leapt and soared, trying to escape from his chest through his throat where he finally managed to catch hold of it while it still hammered crazily.

“I suppose you are,” she said with a small trace of amusement in her voice.  “How about you get a hold of yourself and we start all over again?”

He chuckled, forcing himself to calm down.  “Good idea. Garfield Logan. Friends call me Gar,” he said, extending his hand.

She took it and shook it.  Her grip was warm and strong.  “Rachel Roth. Pleased to meet you, Garfield.”

Again he tensed, this time because of the two opposing feelings that rushed suddenly through him.  On one hand, he wished she didn’t use his full name; he strongly disliked it and much preferred the shortened version.  But there was something in the way it rolled off her lips that made him heat up from inside and filled him with desire to hear her say it again and again, his eyes glazing over as he imagined…

He shook himself like a dog, tearing his mind away from those thoughts and making her raise a slightly puzzled eyebrow.

He turned around to hide another fierce blush and spoke to her over his shoulder.  “It’s really an honor to have you here. Please, let me get you a chair. Can I offer you anything?  Maybe a cup of coffee?”

“Thanks!  I’d prefer herbal tea if you have it,” she said to his back as he brought up a small collapsible chair, opening it and placing it beside the workbench for her to sit down.

“I have some wild thyme kicking around.  I drink it when I come down with a cold.”

She nodded, lowering herself into the surprisingly comfortable seat.  “That would be great, Garfield.”

He grinned at her and slid back a curtain to reveal a tiny niche with a cupboard, a hot plate and a toy-sized sink.  He took a small kettle from the cupboard, filled it with water and placed it on the hot plate. He stepped back into the shop and sat down beside the workbench, facing her.

“So, what brings such a celebrity into my humble shop?”

She frowned slightly at his flattery, then picked up the violin case she was carrying with her and started undoing the locks that kept it closed.

“I brought a violin for maintenance.  Here, take a look,” she said as she removed the instrument from the case and offered it to him.

“This is Steve’s work,” he mumbled mostly to himself, taking it and studying it carefully.  “Number eighty-six.” She just nodded, even though he wasn’t looking at her.

A small smile appeared on his lips.  “Yeah, I know this one. I helped make it.”

She watched him closely as he spoke, his attention now completely taken by the instrument.  There was a delightful air of innocence and childishness about him, so much that her fingers twitched as she fought off the sudden urge to pull his head to her chest and to run them through his unruly, dirty-blond hair and ruffle it, to bury her face into it and breathe in deeply, taking in his scent…

Her shoulders jerked her back, startled by her own thoughts.  He didn’t notice it, absorbed in the study of the violin. She let out a long, quiet, hidden sigh.

“Um… which parts?” she said unnecessarily, trying to mask her own sudden turmoil, realizing belatedly that he wasn’t aware of it.

“The less important ones.  I just helped with odd jobs,” he grumbled, still studying the instrument.  His long, clever fingers caressed the rich wood gently, his nails softly tapping on it and listening carefully.  He plucked the strings with his fingertips and frowned a little, did a quick adjustment with the pegs and listened again.

“The pegs will need to be serviced soon.  It’s not urgent, but I can do it for you now,” he said, again pulling the strings gently and listening to the notes coming out.  “I can also clean the strings a bit. They sound good, but there’s quite a bit of rosin on them. You’ve been playing a lot?”

“That’s my practice instrument.  I do tend to use it heavily,” she said with a little smirk.

“And which one do you use for your performances?” he asked, suddenly turning to face her with a smile on his face.

“Steve’s one-hundred and twenty-eighth,” she replied, wondering if he would know which one it was.

His smile widened into a huge grin.  “Hey, I made the sound box on that one!”

Again she lifted a surprised eyebrow.  “You did? That was an amazing piece of work.  It’s the best-sounding instrument I ever had!”

She fought hard to suppress a giggle when she saw his face suddenly turn cherry-red, his ears almost glowing with embarrassment.  He looked down and cleared his throat several times, trying to speak.

“Thanks, uh… those are… kind words, but… Steve did most of the work, and…”

“I don’t get it.  Did you make the sound box or not?” she asked, not able to resist the temptation to tease him.

“I did, of course, but that’s only a part of the whole, you know, not like I can take all the credit, Steve did a lot of work on it, and he selected all the materials and he made the –”

She placed her hand over his.  “Come on, Garfield, don’t short-change yourself.  You did a wonderful job there. No need to demean yourself or your skill.”

His eyes looked up from the floor and to her slender, pale fingers barely touching his hand, searing its skin like branding irons.  She removed her hand and unconsciously rubbed the tips of her fingers against the palm of her other hand, as if they, too were burning.

The whistle of the kettle startled them both.

“Just in time!” he said aloud with noticeable relief and quickly stood up to prepare the tea and coffee.  A teaspoonful of dried wild thyme went into a teaball which was placed into a mug, together with boiling water.  He turned his head to her, noticing she was looking straight ahead, a small frown creasing her brow, not focusing on anything, as if she was thinking hard about something.

“Would you like some honey in the tea?”

“Hmmm?  Yes, please, Gar.  That would be nice.”

He quickly made instant coffee for himself and brought the two mugs over.

“Here.  Give it a few minutes to steep and cool down.”

They sat down and sipped their brews, silent.  She returned to her unfocused staring while he examined carefully the floor in front of his feet.  A few minutes scurried away, quick, quiet and frightened like mice.

The silence was comforting at first, but it soon became awkward.  His mouth opened but his mind was blank; no relevant words could emerge from the chaos reigning in his head and his soul.  It was Rachel that finally broke the stillness, making him turn his head and look at her.

“Do you still make them, or do you just… repair…” her voice trailed off as she gazed into his eyes and the sight took up her entire attention.  They were deep green, the color of forest shadows. The small gold flecks in them frolicked lazily, able to easily turn playful or even mischievous, but for now just wandering aimlessly, dazed and directionless.

He stared back, letting himself drown in those deep, violet wells, so calm and composed and serene on the surface, so turbulent and passionate and stormy beneath.  He began losing himself in them, attracted ever so deeper, aching to dive into those tumultuous depths and touch her real soul, feel her inner emotions, share with her the love that swept him away so suddenly and so completely.

He finally blinked, his eyes dry from staring so wide at her.  The tiny reaction pulled him back from the brink. He shook himself off, his mind furiously trying to remember what it was that she just said.

“You mean…  Yeah, I still do.  Make them, I mean. I just finished an on-request job, but I also make…”

His throat tightened again, choking off the rest.  She didn’t seem to mind, or even hear what he was saying.  She kept staring at him, her deep, calm gaze pulling at his eyes like a huge magnet.  He fought the urge to look at her, nailing his eyes again to the floor.

The extreme interest that he was using to study the tessellated floor tiles made him miss the tiny jerk of her head as she forced herself out of her own fascination.  She opened her mouth to speak, failed, bit her lower lip and finally found her voice.

“The bow needs re-hairing, also,” she said, blushing again without understanding why.  It was way too much; she frowned, angry at herself for allowing all these bizarre, confusing feelings to overcome her and cause all this uncharacteristic behavior she was exhibiting.

“No problems, I can have it all ready in a couple of days.  You don’t mind leaving it here, do you?”

“Of course not!” she smiled at him, drained the remains of her tea and stood up.  “It’s really been great talking to you, Garfield, but I need to go. I’ll be back for the violin in a couple of days, then.”

He sprung up and walked her to the door.  “I enjoyed it myself!” he grinned at her, his expression raising a warm wave that surged over and through her.  “See ya then!”

He opened the door for her.  She took a step to leave, then stopped, turned and looked at him.

“Gar… when were you going to start working on a new instrument?”  Afraid of her sudden directness, her gaze dropped to the floor.

“Um… I was just getting ready.  I was thinking of starting next week.”

“I’ve… never seen how it’s made…” she said, her voice quickly getting hoarse.  She swallowed and continued, still looking intently at the floor. “Would you mind me being here while you work?  Just to see the process?”

“Mind it?  I’d  _ love _ it!” he exclaimed, his obvious delight at her idea flooding her with tiny, sharp, burning tingles.  She again rewarded him with a small, shy smile while he spoke excitedly. “I can have everything ready and we can start when you come to pick up your violin!”

“Well, that’s certainly going to be something to look forward to!” she said, her smile moving a bit to one side of her face as her composure returned.  “I’ll see you in a couple of days, then.”

The door closed behind her.  He stood there, nostrils flaring as he unconsciously took in the remaining wisps of her scent until they, too were gone, dissipating like mist, vanishing into a nothingness just as ethereal and unreal as his memory of what just happened.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The violin-making materials and procedures described in this and further chapters are correct and authentic to the best of my knowledge and according to a real luthier friend of mine.  There, you see, you may even learn something, besides being entertained!

His thoughts remained in subdued turmoil long after she left.  He found himself obsessed by what happened, unable to do any more work.  He closed the workshop early and started walking aimlessly, allowing his feet to pick an uncharted course and his steps to take him in a random direction while the doubts turned and rolled around in his head, playing leapfrog with each other.

Once awareness of his surroundings returned, he was mildly surprised to realize he was sitting on a park bench in front of a large pond, its calm surface wrinkled lightly by the soft breeze.  It was a warm, pleasant afternoon and for some reason there were few people about. A fleet of water fowl floated closer, elegant white swans escorted by smaller and darker ducks and geese, like huge cruise ships amongst trawlers and tugs.  They gathered in front of him, accustomed to humans throwing them breadcrumbs or other treats. Garfield flashed them an apologetic grin; he was slim pickings, at least today. Seeing there was not much to be gained, the fleet sailed off with a few frustrated honks trailing in their wake.  He chuckled.

He took in the tranquil scene detachedly for a while; the scent of water and freshly mown grass, the sunlight glinting off the wavelets, the loud flapping and splashing of a duck stretching its wings.

He tried to take hold of some of his thoughts, but they were quick and slippery as fish, wiggling and squirming and fighting him and pulling out of his mind’s grasp, to be replaced immediately with another wet, sleek, silvery phantom that would also twist and twitch and streak away in a heartbeat.

A small, crafty smile appeared on his face.  He knew his own mind well enough, and in time he learned how to deal with it.  He used the peaceful surroundings to calm down and soon his thoughts tired of their game, and quieted down, and settled around his soul like kittens seeking warmth, breathing softly and huddling against him, waiting for the caress of his consciousness to stir them into purring life.  He gently took the closest one into his mind’s embrace, loving the feeling of warmth that it spread through him.

It would be his masterpiece.

* * *

 

Choosing the materials for the violin was easy, but obtaining them might be difficult.  Only the best of the best was good enough for what he wanted. He smiled, his eyes sweeping over the spruce and maplewood stored in the workshop, his fingers touching the boards until they reached a set of pieces carefully placed to have air stream freely around them, drying and curing the wood.

His smile expanded into a quick grin.  Maplewood was usually treated by soaking in horse urine to leech the sugars out of it before allowing it to dry for three or more years.  But these pieces were not treated that way. He had hit paydirt when he ran into the maple beam from which they were taken. It happened last summer; he was strolling beside the small church in the neighborhood, noticing it was being restored and parts of its interior reworked.  As luck would have it, workers were just carrying the beam out to toss it carelessly onto the debris pile, ready to be sold as firewood or maybe even thrown away. The color of the wood called out to him immediately; he quickly approached and studied the beam carefully, knocking on it a few times, amazed at its acoustics.  It had obviously been used as decoration or minor support, without any heavy weight resting on it. Unvarnished, it slept for a long time inside the small church, slowly drying for at least fifty years, until it became a luthier’s dream. It would be a sin not to wake up the harmony hidden in its grain.

He knew immediately he had to have it.

The workers’ surprise at his request was quickly transformed into satisfaction as twenty dollars exchanged hands and they loaded the beam onto his aged truck.  He took it to his workshop immediately and spent several days sawing off boards of the appropriate size from it. He kept them for special occasions and only used two of them so far.

He removed a board and rapped it sharply with the knuckle.  It rang almost like a gong. He quickly repeated the procedure with several other boards that he had cut out from the same beam.  Finding the best one was a difficult task; the beam was dense and homogenous and each board rang satisfyingly to his keen ears. It would come down to taste, he realized.  He finally opted for a slightly duller but more mellow-sounding one, removing it from its resting place and taking it to the workshop, savoring the anticipation, enjoying again the sweet battle against his impatience.

It was the reason he loved violin making so much.  It made him control his impulsiveness and channel his emotions, pouring them into his work and making them resonate in the finished instrument.  All his joy and pain, his sadness and his delight; they were all there, trembling expectantly in the wood and the glue and the varnish, just waiting for a bow to touch the strings, for a virtuoso’s hand to wake them up and coax them out in a haunting chant.

For a hand like hers.

* * *

 

Her hand went for the door handle, then froze.  She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to single out and call up anger from the confusion she was feeling and use it to shoo away all those butterflies that were apparently using her insides to stage an air show, complete with stunt flying acrobatics.  Her jaw set, the annoyance finally flaring up. No, this could not be allowed to continue. Whatever was going on, it was way too strange and way too unsettling. She willed her hand to release the handle and drop by her side, commanded her legs to turn her around and go back home, ordered her heart to stop thumping so loudly.  She would send someone over to pick the violin up. And she’d google it to learn how they’re made. No need to waste her time with that… disquieting boy.

Completely against her wishes, her hand pushed the door open and her legs carried her in, as if her own body was fed up with her mind’s attitude, taking control and not allowing her any more doubts or second thoughts.  The soft chime of the bells above the door startled her. She looked around, her confusion mounting. She was completely unaware of having entered the cramped shop, but… but she was _inside,_ somehow.  What was happening to her?

“Rachel!” his excited greeting almost made her jump a couple of feet in the air.  Her heart went into panic mode, very keen on demonstrating its rendition of a jackhammer at full blast, both in speed and in loudness.

She swallowed, trying to push the fluttering, thudding nuisance down from her throat and back where it belonged, and valiantly attempted to answer.

“H – Hello, Gar…”

He was beside her in a couple of long, quick strides, taking her hand and pulling her deeper into the shop, farther into the belly of the beast, away from the door and the promise of a return to forgetful oblivion, everyday normalcy and comfortable routine that it represented.

She followed him, all stiff legs and wobbly knees.  Surprise at the inconsistency between the two sensations flashed inanely through her mind.  Luckily, salvation beckoned at her in the form of the collapsible chair she remembered from last time.  She managed to lower herself into it, still tense and rigid, but at least now able to fake she was not. He chattered nervously, turning to the niche in the wall and putting the kettle on the hot plate, but she could only hear the drone of his voice, without recognizing any words.

She closed her eyes.  His anxious jabbering still came in as an incomprehensible hum, and yet for some reason it calmed and relaxed her.  Her insides unclenched slowly, the blood that had rushed to her face drained back to the rest of her body and the shaking of her hands diminished to a tremor.

She sighed deeply, finally feeling the mastery of body and mind return.  His words started making sense.

“… make one in the Guarneri scheme.  I’ve prepared the back board and already did some of the boring stuff so you don’t have to waste your time –”

She lifted her eyes and met his gaze.

“– that way we can start by copying the template onto the board and cutting it, and then… joining… the halves…”

His voice trailed off into silence and he stood still, mouth slightly open with the last unsaid word poised to leave it.  It would never be able to; deep green dove into bottomless violet and he lost himself in her eyes.

The whistle of the kettle startled them again.  He frowned and turned to the niche to prepare the tea and coffee.  He was starting to feel a definite dislike for the noisy contraption and its insistence on whistling in the worst possible moment.

He brought the mugs to the workbench and placed her tea beside her, sitting down to take a sip of his coffee.  She heard him heave a soft sigh and hid a smirk. Seeing that he was just as discombobulated as she was felt _good_ for some reason.  So good, in fact, that she decided she would keep him in that state.  The part of her that was aghast at what she decided to do and tried to reason her out of it was quickly and ruthlessly pushed to a small, remote corner of her mind.

She waited until he made himself comfortable and started sipping his coffee before she spoke.

“Is my violin ready?” she asked him, barely able to mask the mischief in her voice.  He jumped up back on his feet, snorting some of the coffee back into the mug, luckily avoiding bumping into the workbench and again launching tools and assorted knick-knacks all around the small shop.

“Of course!  I’m sorry, I’ll get it right away, should’ve thought of that, it’s finished!  I’ve been working hard on it, don’t worry, you’ll see, it’s all done and all set and it sounds great, even better than it did before, and I –” he babbled as he strode swiftly to the back of the shop, looking for it.  Her hidden smirk widened. He was just _adorable_ when he got so flustered and bewildered.

_Yes, I remember somebody else that behaved just like that only a few minutes ago, don’t you, Miss Calm-and-Collected?_

She frowned and pushed the annoying voice away from her mind again.  There was _no way_ she acted so… lost, and so befuddled, and confused.  Nuh-uh. Not _her ._

It took him only a few seconds to bring her violin back.  She opened the case eagerly and took the instrument out. As always, a sense of peace and satisfaction filled her soul at the touch of the warm wood and the almost imperceptible smell of dry varnish and old furniture.  Her fingers ran over it quickly, trailing along the familiar curves and smooth planes and well-known tiny imperfections. She sighed her contentment.

“Do you mind if I try it?” she asked, her voice now firm and level, her composure returning, the instrument in her hands an essential part of her, a part that kept her alive and safe and warm, that cared for her and protected her and listened and sang to her.

“Of course not, I was just going to ask you to do it!” he exclaimed, then suddenly blushed.  “Maybe you could… play something… for me?”

She lifted a cool eyebrow at him, stifling a giggle at his reaction.  She immediately scolded herself for it; it was a mean thing to do, but she _was_ a bit angry at him for making her feel so… unusual.  For making her behave so… strangely.

Never mind.  It was irrelevant.  The violin was in her hands, and that was all that mattered.  But maybe… Maybe she could fulfill his wish? There could be nothing wrong in playing a short melody for him, now, could it?

She took the bow and tensed it, checked that the strings were properly tuned and started playing a scale to unlimber, relax and warm up the fingers.  She closed her eyes and released herself to the familiar movements and sounds, rocking gently as her fingers and hands flew and the music slowly took over.

With a blissful smile on her face she played a few phrases from _La Violetera,_ then her eyes opened and sought him out.  He was watching her, expectant, anxious. Her smile widened a little and became just a bit crooked; her lids closed half-way and she bowed her head slightly, just so she could look at him from under her lashes.  A sense of delicious daring flooded her and she launched herself into a positively sensual _Largo_ of Monti’s _Csárdás._

By the time she reached the _Allegro vivo_ her eyes were closed, her pale features flushed, her fingers a blur, her nostrils flaring and her jaw clenched.  She played it without the frills and curlicues that many other players loved so much, her _rubato_ minimal, but the flow of her playing, her smooth transitions, her emotive _crescendos_ and powerful _vibratos_ imbued the already passionate piece with an unearthly fervor.  When she finally concluded, two small tears shone like diamonds in the corners of her eyes.

She opened her eyes and gazed at him.  She was looking forward to seeing him again with his mouth open and a small giggle was already building in her throat.  But he was far from gaping at her. He was watching her intently, that much was true, but she certainly did not expect to see the almost feral glow that shone in his eyes.  She blushed deeply.

For some reason, the reassuring, protective feeling that the violin always gave her was gone.  She sensed that this time she will not be able to use it as her defensive bulwark, her guardian tower, her sheltering wall.  It would not shield her against whatever he was doing to her. Irrational fear crept in and engulfed her.

She looked down, her hands trembling as they tightened around the neck of the instrument and the bow.  She felt the heat in her face and wished she wore a hoodie or something similar, something that she could pull over her head, cover her face, hide herself from him and the raw, primal emotions that she saw burning deep in those distressingly green eyes.

Irrational fear turned into unreasoning anger.  At him, at herself, at the whole world. What was she _doing?_  What was _he_ doing, tricking her, making her use her gift, her music, to wrench out such a… such a _confession_ … no, not a confession, certainly not, that was just confusion, and her stupid, _stupid_ reaction to his… to…

She was out of there.  Now.

She scowled and placed the violin carefully in its case, securing the bow beside it and closing the case.  She rose, picked the case up and strode to the door.

“Thank you, Garfield!” she said as haughtily as she could.  “I must leave now. I will send someone to settle the bill.”

She reached the door, the silence behind her deafening.  Her hand went for the door handle. The back of her neck crawled, feeling his astonished gaze on her.

_Dontlookbackdontlookbackdontlookback_

She turned and looked back.

A black, cold pit opened up in her gut.  She tried to swallow but her mouth and her throat were both dry, barren and parched, there was nothing that she could force down but dust and regret and bitterness.  Her eyes were riveted on his, unable to look away, even though everything in her screamed to tear her gaze away, to close her eyes, to look elsewhere, anywhere but into the hurt and the pain and the disbelief.  The hurt and the pain that _she_ caused _._

His eyes darkened and lost any expression.  He rose and walked over without haste to stand beside her, silent, holding her gaze like he would hold a small bird in his hand; gently, lovingly and inescapably.

Her hand clenched white around the handle of the case.  Slowly, mechanically, like an unoiled robot, she took a step back from the door

The hand opened and released the bird.  Her eyes dropped. Her breath returned, together with her voice.

“I’m… sorry.”

“For what?”

The two words struck her cruelly and mercilessly, more so because they weren’t meant to be.

“You… had everything ready to show me, and I…”

“It’s OK, Rachel.”

She closed her eyes.  The love and understanding in his voice and his words twisted a burning knife through her insides.  If only he would be angry at her and shout, and rage, and scream at her. If only he didn’t…

Resolve boiled up in her and swept all her doubts away.  She looked up into his eyes again.

“No.  I want to see.  Show me.”

* * *

 

“Notice how I cut the board diagonally lengthwise?  First we have to align these two halves so that the grain and the tree rings are symmetrical,” he showed her.

“Does that influence the sound?”

“Of course.  Otherwise the two halves would resonate just a little different, and that would muddy the sound.  And it also looks better this way!” he concluded with a smile.

He held the two halves in the position he wanted and carefully placed a hand clamp over the top and another at the bottom to hold them in place.  “Now we need to copy the template on it, like so…” he commented as he worked, using a template of a violin’s body and marking its outlines on the clamped board halves with a soft pencil.

She watched him carefully, genuinely interested in the process, but even more in his long, deft fingers, gentle but strong, patient yet decisive.  He unclamped the marked halves and used a power jigsaw to cut along the drawn lines. She leaned closer to observe, surprised.

“I thought luthiers never used power tools…”

“Hey, we’re just as lazy as any other guy!” he laughed, stopping his cutting for a moment.  “But you’re right. Power tools move just too fast and the friction burns the wood. But that doesn’t mean that we can’t use them on parts that will get manually planed or sanded off later,” he explained with a grin.

She nodded.  He finished the cutting and picked up the pieces of wood that were cut away, carefully placing them into a small shoe box marked with the number of the violin that he was making.

“You are keeping those pieces that you just cut off?”

“That’s right.  If in the future I need to make repairs on this instrument, it helps a lot to have the original material that was used to make it in the first place.”

The next hour was spent planing and sanding the surfaces to be glued together.  “They must be absolutely flat and perfectly aligned to each other,” he told her.  “The way to make sure is to look at it against a strong light, like so…” he illustrated.  “You have to make sure no light shines through.”

He continued working on it until he was completely satisfied, which took quite a while.  Finally finished, he cleaned up the workbench and surrounding area, vacuuming away the sawdust.  A small frown formed on his face while he was doing it. She wondered what was happening; hopefully there weren’t any problems.

Suddenly his face cleared and a smile spread over it.  He looked at her eagerly.

“Would you mind giving me a hand?  There’s something you could be very helpful with!”

She smiled back.  “I’d love to, Gar.  What is it?”

He grinned wryly at her.  “The glue. I’d like you to spread a thin, even layer of it on the surfaces we’re going to join.” Her eyebrow went up, surprised at the simple request.  He noticed it and sighed. “The glue is made from fish bone, and I’m… I’m a vegan.”

Her face turned serious.  “Are you ashamed of your lifestyle choices, Gar?”

“No, no!  It’s just that…”

“I think that’s wonderful, Garfield,” she said and placed her hand over his.  “Never be ashamed of such things. Your choices make you who you are.”

He smiled at her.  “Thank you, Rachel.  You make me feel better.  But it’s not that I’m ashamed; there’s simply no synthetic or plant-based alternative for fish bone glue.  So every time I’m forced to use it I feel like… I don’t like doing it, but I must.”

Under his direction, she performed the simple task well.  They joined the two pieces together and he carefully secured them tight with a couple of small clamps.

“That’s it.  It’ll have to dry well before we can continue working on it.”

“How much time?”

“Usually twenty four hours, but I prefer to wait a bit more.  Do you mind if we continue the day after tomorrow?”

She _did_ mind.  Somehow the thought of having to wait two full days before seeing him again was making her uncomfortable.  She fought the feeling off and smiled at him.

“I’ll be here then, Gar.  Thank you for showing me this and for being patient with me.”

“Hey, it was my pleasure.  I enjoyed it!”

They stood at the door, neither one of them ready or willing to say the fatal word that would end the day.

“So…”  Garfield tried, examining the floor.  He would soon become quite an expert in it.

She also looked down, helping him in his exploration.  “Yes, well…”

“I guess…”

“Right.”

A thought went through his head and out his mouth before his mind had the time to process it.

“Say, would you like to go, like… out… tomorrow?” he asked as his voice got ever hoarser.

“I’d love to!” she replied instantly, lifting her eyes to look at him, then immediately blushed fiercely and returned to the study of their joint Ph.D. in tessellated floor tiles.

“Great!  Around… this time?”

She didn’t reply, just got on tiptoe, planted a tiny kiss on his cheek and vanished through the door.

He stood transfixed, his eyes glazed and his grin threatening to push his ears to the back of his head.  After quite a while he finally sighed, shook himself out of it regretfully and returned to the many things he had to do, whistling Monti’s _Csárdás_ softly as he worked away, unaware he was doing it.

 


	3. Chapter 3

“Wowzers!” came out involuntarily from his throat when he saw her.  “You look… great!”

With a supreme effort of will she forced herself to keep her eyes on his, though she couldn’t help feel her cheeks color somewhat.  She  _ had _ to see if he liked it; she was uncomfortable dressing up, even when it was for a performance, and she desperately needed confirmation that her choices were correct.  It was not an easy task; her closet was woefully under-equipped for such occasions since loose and utilitarian clothes were her usual preference. Seeing he was sincere, she offered a quick, silent mental thanks to her friend who insisted so many times in dragging her to the much-hated shopping mall and forcing her to buy more feminine attire every so often.

_ Thank you, Kori.  I owe you. This is worth at least five excursions to the mall.  It’s even worth an evening of babysitting Silkie for you. _

She shuddered inwardly, remembering the yapping, drooling pest – sorry,  _ pet _ – her friend doted so much over.

_ Let’s not get too enthusiastic.  Three trips to the mall and a pineapple-and-mint-frosting pizza with mustard should be enough. _

She yanked her thoughts back to the present.  “Thank you, Gar! That’s very nice of you to say!”

“I speak the truth, all the truth and nothing but the truth, so help me God!” he grinned at her, lifting his hand in a mock gesture of assertion.  “I’m serious. It’s casual, but elegant. Suits you well.”

“I don’t think I’m very casual!” she complained ineffectually, not able to keep her eyes from looking down any more. The pink spots on her pale cheeks widened and deepened.

“No.  You don’t  _ allow _ yourself to be casual.  There’s a difference.” He realized his mouth ran ahead of his brain yet again and shifted uncomfortably on his feet, but she didn’t seem to be offended.

He cleared his throat.  “So, where would you like to go?”

She looked at him with slight surprise.  “I thought you had some place on your mind?”

“I do!” he grinned at her.  “Several of them! But I’m not sure what you’d prefer, and I’m certainly not dragging you somewhere you wouldn’t like!”

A small smile spread over her face, lifting her lips more on one side than on the other, making it ever so slightly crooked.  “Hmmm. OK, I’ll buy that one!” she said and took him under his arm. “Let’s just walk for a while.”

She could swear that there was a flash of playfulness in his eyes, as if he accepted and returned her dare.  “That sounds fine. Let’s go.”

He grabbed a small sports bag, slung it over his shoulder, closed the shop and they strolled away, her arm wrapped around his.

They walked silently for a while.  His mind had no clue where he was taking her, but his legs apparently knew very well and moved surely and purposefully.  He chuckled silently as they approached their destination. It was the same park, the same pond, the same bench he was sitting on a couple of days ago.  He guided her over and they sat down, enjoying the surroundings.

“Beautiful spot,” she said quietly.  “I wonder how is it that I missed it.”

“Discovered it the other day!” he admitted, grinning.  “Hungry?”

“A little,” she said, her eyebrow going up as he dug into the bag and brought out a couple of sandwiches and two cans of soda.  “I hope you like it. I made it myself.”

She unwrapped the sandwich he offered and bit into it.  “Mmmm. Chicken mayo? Not usually my favorite, but this one’s great!  You have a talent for making sandwiches, also!”

He grinned at her again and busied himself with his own tofu-avocado-tomato-lettuce creation.  She took another bite, then suddenly frowned, swallowed what she was chewing and spoke.

“Gar, you made this?  You’re vegan! Why did you –”

He laughed.  “Relax, it’s not the first time!  I make them for my fried Vic, also, and he doesn’t consider a lunch complete unless there’s at least a pound of meat involved!”

Her frown faded, but did not disappear completely.  “It’s good to know that, but still…”

He gave her a mischievous smile.  “It’s all part of my evil plan to take over the world.  First I’ll make all of you desperately addicted to my perfect sandwiches and then I’ll slowly replace the meat and animal products, until you’re left with no option but to eat vegan!  Mwahahahaha!”

She laughed at his silly joke, enjoying the sunny enthusiasm he was radiating.  He watched and listened to her, forgetting to chew on his own mouthful.

_ She’s laughing at my joke!  Dude, I’m… What a beautiful, happy, pure laugh!  I wish I could make her laugh all the time! _

He continued eating, now silent, basking in the warmth he felt inside.  The day was beautiful, the company perfect. It made him giddy.

The fleet of swans and ducks approached quickly, probably noticing that they were eating and certain that this time their insistence will be rewarded.  He chuckled and threw them a crust. Rachel smiled and followed suit. They watched the birds scramble to get at the morsels, occasionally throwing more crumbs and crusts.  Eventually they both finished their sandwiches and leaned back, relaxed and smiled.

Rachel broke the comfortable silence.  “Tell me, Gar, how did you end up being a luthier?  Where did Steve find you?”

His smile became brittle and he looked away, his eyes following the swans gliding over the calm surface of the pond.  His lips parted and his breath went in, but he didn’t speak.

It was painfully obvious that for some reason the topic was not a pleasant one for him.  She cursed herself for her inquisitiveness, but the damage was done. Her mind raced, trying to find an opening in the awkward wall that had just sprung up between them.

“It’s a long story,” he said quietly, his eyes still on the birds cleaning up the last remnants of the crumbs they threw into the water.

She tried to correct her mistake.  “Gar, I’m sorry, I understand, if it’s an uncomfortable topic you don’t need to –”

He turned to her, ignoring her words.  “My parents died when I was eight,” he spoke firmly, pushing away his doubts and concerns.  “Rafting accident. In Africa. Dad managed to save me, but… the only thing I could do was cling to that branch and watch them go over.”

She tried to stop him, explain to him that he didn’t have to go through it, tell him that everything was fine.  But she was unable to do anything except force her breath through a constricted throat and shift her gaze anxiously from one of his eyes to the other and back.

“My uncle Nick was appointed to be my legal guardian,” he continued, turning again to watch the pond.  “What nobody then knew was that he was a compulsive gambler, and that he was already making inroads in the estate that my parents left.  He couldn’t care less for me, the guardianship was only a means for him to get unrestricted access to the money. He gambled it all away in just a few months.”

He sighed and looked at his hands, somewhat surprised that they were not trembling or clenching into fists.  Maybe he was coming to terms with it all. Maybe he would find peace finally.

“He frittered it away and soon he became desperate to find more so he could fuel yet another one of his infallible gambling schemes.  He fell into the clutches of some loan sharks. When he was not able to pay them back…”

She shuddered.  “They killed him?”

He looked at her, his usually bright, clear eyes now opaque and mirror-like, reflecting her gaze back without letting anything come out.

“Of course not,” he said in a cool, matter-of-fact tone that gave no indication of any emotion under it.  “They were going to get their money’s worth out of him, if nothing then as a warning to others. They broke his arms and legs, painfully, carefully, clinically.  They made sure he wouldn’t be able to use them for the rest of his life.”

She closed her eyes, incapable of enduring his expressionless gaze any longer.  He went on with the story.

“He gave up, finally.  After six months he gave up and simply faded away.  The doctors told me there was nothing physically wrong with him, he just didn’t want to go on living like that.”

She felt anger stir deep inside her as she listened.  “Good riddance!” she hissed, grinding her teeth. She felt his hand touch hers and the fury vanished like a light turned off.

“He was a sick man,” he said softly.  “He did bad things and he paid for them.  Maybe too harshly. Maybe if I was able to help him…”

His words stabbed straight into her heart.  She gasped soundlessly, her eyes now squeezed shut and her hands curled into fists, the nails digging into her palms painfully.  It took all of her self-control not to scream. His feelings were way too familiar to her.

_ I’m sorry, father.  Maybe if I understood you I could’ve helped you, and all that wouldn’t have happened.  Maybe it was my fault. Maybe I never was what you expected or wanted from me. Maybe I should’ve tried harder.  Maybe… _

His words wrenched her out of her painful self-recrimination.  “That’s when Steve found me. Or perhaps I should say I found him,” he smiled, remembering.  “It was summer and his air conditioning unit was broken. The door was wide open as I passed beside the shop.  I heard the sound of woodworking and sensed the smell of freshly cut wood and glue and varnish… so I looked inside, to see him bent over the workbench.  For some reason it captivated me; I stood there watching him for a long time, I have no idea how long, but it must have been hours. The next thing I knew he was closing the door, glancing at me with a frown and leaving.”

“I came there again tomorrow.  Nothing could keep me away. I continued watching him as he worked, utterly fascinated.  He never acknowledged my presence. A bit after noon he closed the shop and left for lunch.  I remained sitting on the sidewalk, not caring about how hungry I was, waiting for him to return.  When he got back and saw me still waiting there, he opened the door, looked at me and jerked his head, letting me know I was to follow him inside.  He placed me on a chair – the same chair you used – and he gave me a sandwich and a soda, then continued working. I ate what he gave me, my eyes never leaving him.  We didn’t speak a single word.”

He was completely taken over by his storytelling, the words coming out in a slow, measured tide no less irresistible and unstoppable for being gentle and calm.  She felt herself completely immersed, swept away by the quiet flood, enraptured by the tale and the sound of his voice and the deep emotions that flowed out from him as he spoke.

“By the end of the day he motioned me out of the shop, closed it and left.  I went home and slept; I remember clearly that I slept long and peacefully, as if I had finally found what I was searching for.  I was in front of his shop early tomorrow morning. He glanced at me, opened up and went inside. I followed and again sat and watched him work.”

“It was quite some time before we spoke to each other.  On the third day he gave me the violin scroll that he was working on and a piece of sandpaper and said one word: ‘try’.  That’s how I became a luthier.”

He straightened up and leaned against the hard back of the bench, gazing at the pond.  He felt her nearness burn him, making him yearn to move closer, to touch her and feel that heat fill him and blaze inside him and consume him all until he was only a handful of bright, glowing cinders.  He felt her shift slightly and looked at her.

She was biting her lip, trying to find something to say, knowing that words were the only thing that could dispel the magic that enveloped her and pulled her towards him.  She longed to let go and release herself to the feelings he awoke in her, but she was too afraid and too confused and too lonely; she dared not venture forth and go out and look up at the sun, her own memories looming huge and intimidating in her mind, scaring her away to huddle back in her cool, comforting, familiar gloominess, terrified of the brightness and colors and merry sounds coming from outside, both attempting to lure her out and frightening her.

“Steve… was a great master,” she said hoarsely, finally able to speak.

He nodded and looked ahead again.

“His wife and several of his close friends died in a freak accident.  He never spoke of it, but I found out.” A small, wan smile crossed his face.  “He never learned how to deal with it. He buried his emotions and himself in his work.  That’s why his instruments have that sound. That’s what makes them unique and priceless.”

He moved slightly to accommodate himself better on the hard wooden surface.  “I was looking for a father and he needed company. But he seldom spoke to me and he never made any affectionate gesture towards me.  And yet as I sat beside him in the hospital, holding his hand while the cancer consumed him, I could feel his hand squeeze mine back, just before he...” his voice trailed off.  

Her eyes stung.  She couldn’t stand it, seeing him now not confused and befuddled any more, but alone and vulnerable and opening to her and engulfing her in the feelings she knew only once before, the time when it ended in deception and pain.  The memory called up a fear that froze her, stirred up the terror that it would happen again and that she would be torn apart and left broken in quivering pieces once more, picking up the remnants of her heart and her soul slowly and painfully and putting them back together through months of self-doubt, remorse and agony.

He shook himself out of his moodiness, letting the warm, sunny day and the calm surroundings soothe him.  He turned to her and smiled, asking the question that came predictably to him, unaware of the poison and the agony it was loaded with.

“How about you?  What made you start playing the violin?”

Subconsciously she was expecting him to ask, but still she froze, all the muscles in her body cramping suddenly, her mind aware only of its own soundless wail of denial and terror and shame.  She squeezed her eyes shut, fighting the waves of nausea that made her stomach roll and her bile rise. She did the only thing she could do that would keep her from throwing up right there and then.  She allowed the rage to take her as she felt it sear and burn away the self-imposed guilt, slowly settling her insides and leaving only the painful, smoldering stigmata in her soul and a throat full of angry words like a swarm of furious hornets that were only waiting for her mouth to open so they could fly out and bite and sting and envenom him.

Teeth clenched desperately, he gave herself a few seconds for all of it to subside.  He watched her with concern, realizing his question was just as painful to her as hers was to him, maybe even more.  His hand went to touch her, afraid of what he’d done, but she shrank from the contact and hunched her head between her shoulders.

“Rachel, I’m sorry, I didn’t know…”

She rose from the bench and walked a few steps away, turning her back to him.  He got up and followed her, uncertainty tearing him up, not able to decide what to do.  She hugged herself to fend off the shivers that were building up in her body, the nails biting painfully into her skin, trying to hurt the trembling away.  She forced a croaked response out.

“It’s… not your fault.  You couldn’t have known.”

She felt his hands on her shoulders.  She wanted to shake him off, but his touch was warm, his fingers gentle, his presence calming and consoling.  She felt the slight pressure of his hands, begging her to turn around. She tried to fight it, again attempting to tear herself from the deceptively sweet and addictive sensation of peace and safety he awoke in her.  She heaved herself away from his hands but her body betrayed her yet again, using the movement to turn and fall into him, hugging him fiercely and burying her face in his chest.

“It’s okay, it’s all right, you don’t have to tell me, it’s fine, calm down, don’t worry, I’m here, it’s okay!” he droned on, curling his arms protectively around her, feeling her slowly unclench and loosen as she listened to his voice and relaxed, feeling his heavy heartbeat and filling her lungs with his scent.  She felt dizzy, all the sudden and contradictory emotions that roared through her sapping all her strength. Her knees felt weak and her head spun.

She pushed him gently away and returned to the bench, lowering herself heavily down on it.  He followed her, watching her carefully for a few seconds before sitting beside her again.

She took a deep breath, cleansing herself from everything.  She lifted her gaze and met his eyes.

“I’m sorry, Gar.  Yes, it’s a… difficult subject for me.”

“That’s fine, no problems.  I’m sorry I’ve –”

“No!” she cut him off forcefully.  “This is not your fault. It’s not even mine.  It’s…” her mind worked hard, trying to find the words.  “You opened up for me, and I thank you for it. You have no idea how much it means to me.  But I can’t…” she shivered. “Not yet,” she concluded quietly, then took hold of his hand and looked over the pond.

They sat silent for a while until Rachel felt fully recovered, but with the calmness came exhaustion.  She glanced shyly at him.

“Gar?”

“Hmmm?” he replied, turning to look at her.

“Listen, please don’t take this the wrong way, but can you walk me back to the shop?  All this… I’m dead tired.”

He frowned but quickly forced his face to clear.  “Sure. No problem.”

She sighed, seeing that he was hurt.  “Gar, please. It’s not that I had a great time – if I said I did, you’d know that I was lying.  But it was a moment I’d share with nobody else, and it doesn’t mean I wouldn’t like… going out again… I mean, if you…”

“I’d love to!” he said quickly, his face lighting up in a happy grin first, then becoming serious.  “I guess we’re both guilty as charged. Maybe we should stay away from our past and focus on the present.”

Her hand squeezed his.  “For now.”

He smiled, nodded and got up, offering her his hand.  “Let’s go.”

Again they walked silent until they reached the shop.  Again, both were unwilling to say goodbye and part ways.  In the end, Rachel couldn’t resist the feeling of guilt any longer and she raised her eyes.

“Can I… I mean, tomorrow… for the violin?”

“I’d be very disappointed if you didn’t,” he answered, his voice low and raspy.

“I’ll be there!” she said quickly and walked briskly away, forcing herself not to run.  He watched her until she turned a corner and vanished, then opened the shop and walked inside with a heavy sigh.

 


	4. Chapter 4

She watched the small wood chips fly as he deftly and lovingly moved the small gouge over the maplewood that would soon become the violin’s back.  Pausing in his work for a moment, his fingers ran caressingly over the rough surface and his nails gently tapped the wood while he listened intently at the sound.  He allowed himself a small, satisfied smile and resumed his work.

She felt a small twinge of… jealousy?  He was absorbed in his work and she could swear he wasn’t even aware of her presence any more.  He worked silently, without any whistling or humming or mumbling that could scatter and dissipate his emotions, focusing them instead on his work and allowing them to flow from his fingers into the wood, imbuing it with all that he felt at that moment.

And she would give anything to know what he was feeling.

He picked up the board and checked its remaining thickness, gave a satisfied grunt and laid it down on the workbench to continue.  She made use of the short interruption to remind him she was there.

“Gar?”

“Hmmm?” his clear, innocent eyes turned to her.

“I…” suddenly what she wanted to say stuck in her throat and started choking her slowly.  She tore her gaze away from his eyes and let it rest over the block of wood. “I’ll be leaving the day after tomorrow.”

An alarmed glow lit up in his eyes.  “Leaving? Why? Where? Is it something I –”

His obvious distress helped her swallow her throat open.  She placed a soothing hand over his. “Don’t worry, it’s nothing that you did.  I have a performance in Paris scheduled in two weeks. I’m playing Bach.”

“But you’re coming back, aren’t you?  It’s not like you’ll stay there or –”

She smothered a giggle, but could do nothing about the small smile that spread on her face.  “Of course not, silly. I’m coming back after it’s over. The reason I’m telling you is because I’d…”  Her traitorous throat squeezed shut again.

“Because what?” he said, frowning.  It did nothing to help lessen the feeling of an invisible rope tightening around her neck, slowly strangling her.  If anything, it just intensified it.

“Well, I was thinking… if you could… I mean, until I…” she fought with her throat, her mouth and her tongue, each one of them apparently declaring a general strike and refusing to obey her mind’s commands.

She looked at him pleadingly, as if he could help her out of her predicament, but his eyes were dark and pained.

“The violin,” she whispered finally.

His blink was the only outward sign of the mighty yank he used to startle himself out of his turmoil.

“It can wait,” he said gently.

“I’m… sorry if it’s a problem, but… The concert… I was looking forward to it…  Bach is my favorite composer… and this is important to me…”

“Hey, no worries!” he said, trying to calm her down, forcing as much unfelt cheerfulness into his voice as he could.  “It’s not going anywhere. We’ll pick up when you return.” He turned back to his work, his smile as hard, as transparent and as fragile as spun glass.

She didn’t notice.  Hearing his words, she closed her eyes for an instant as the flood of relief washed over her.  It left her calmer, but also filled her mind with doubts. Why was she reacting like this? Her Paris concert was the greatest opportunity she ever had and it will be decisive for her future career.  If she could make it there and offer a good performance, the whole world would be opened wide to her. And yet she felt she could simply dismiss all of that, brush it all away, if only it meant…

Afraid to even think about it, she forced herself to watch him again as he continued with his work.  His quick, sure, precise movements absorbed her attention and she finally relaxed.

“That’s as close as I want it,” he grumbled and placed the gouge back on the tool rack.  Her eyes followed his hands as he opened a drawer and took out a set of the tiniest woodworking planes she ever saw.  They ranged from two inches long to barely the size of her pinky finger; delicate and precise instruments for delicate and precise work.  She leaned closer, her interest mounting.

He noticed her surprise and smiled, handing her one of the tools.  “Tiny, aren’t they? They have to be.”

She took the small tool gingerly, surprised at its weight.  It was made of solid brass and the blade was steel; its size belied its strength.  It was definitely not a toy, as much as it resembled one.

He took careful hold of one of them and began working with it, slowly smoothing out the gouged furrows.  He worked for a few minutes, then stopped to run his fingers across the surface, brushing their sensitive tips over it almost reverently.  She shivered slightly as she watched him do it, almost able to feel those strong but gentle hands gliding – 

She tensed, startled again at the path her thoughts were taking.  Unaware of it all, he looked at her and smiled.

“Wanna give it a try?”

She looked up and met his gaze.  “Are you sure I won’t –”

He waved away her concern.  “Don’t worry. I won’t let you!” he said reassuringly as his smile expanded to a grin.  He moved aside to let her stand closer to the workbench and gave her the plane he was using.

“Hold the board firmly, like that…” he said, stepping behind her, taking her left hand into his and placing it over the wood.  She gripped the board hard, her skin tingling at his touch. “Now move the plane over the gouges to even them out.”

She pushed the tiny tool forward, just to have it immediately snag and jump out of her grasp.  He chuckled. “Hold it tight, but don’t overdo it. You need to find the right amount of force so you can control it, but if you overdo it you’ll get tired and cramp your fingers.”

She picked the plane up and got ready to try again.  Still keeping his left hand on hers, he reached around and covered her right hand with his own, giving her an indication of the amount of force necessary, then pushed her hand with the tool forward, showing her the proper way to move it.  A few small wood shavings spiraled away as the plane moved over the wood.

She barely heard what he was telling her.  All she was aware of was the feeling of his hands on hers, his chest pressing on her back, his cheek touching her ear.  She felt his warmth scorching her, but she couldn’t,  _ wouldn’t _ move away.  Her muscles were completely limp, afraid to move, afraid to speak, afraid to breathe.

“Guide it firmly forward and don’t push down.  Let the blade do the work. Don’t use too much force or you’ll just tire quicker!” he said, continuing his demonstration, pushing the tool and her unresisting, submissive hand forwards and backwards.  Small, curly wood chips were forced through the blade groove and fell out on the board. She was only dimly aware of it, her mind dizzy, her knees weak. He leaned forward to see and control her hand better.  His cheek pressed into hers. She froze, all her muscles stiffening abruptly. He felt it and it confused him for an instant, before the realization of their position filtered to his mind and his body also tensed.

She felt his cheek move away both with relief and with longing, her eyes riveted on the miniature piece of polished brass now immobile between her fingers, fingers that were cradled in his warm, strong grasp.  The rich shine of the yellow metal expanded and grew until it filled her eyes, becoming the only real, tangible, solid thing in the entire Universe.

His closeness seared her, the burning agonizingly ecstatic.  Her head slowly turned towards him, pulled by a force she couldn’t comprehend or resist.  Her gaze was wrenched up by the same compelling, inexorable magnetism, seeking out his eyes, meeting them and falling helplessly into their green depths, making the deafening thumping of her heart in her ears fade into the distance.  His scent flowed into her, mingled with the air that hissed softly, almost soundlessly into her lungs. Her mind went blank and her eyes closed, her head tilted up and her lips parted slightly. His head bent down, getting nearer.

The bells over the door chimed.

“Yo, Shrimp!  Whassup with y’all?” a loud voice burst in on them from the direction of the door. Garfield jerked back and Rachel almost fell, her knees unable to support her weight all of a sudden.  His hand somehow found and held her arm, helping her slump into the chair. They both turned to look at the intruder, their faces an advertisement for ripe tomatoes.

“Hey, Vic!” Garfield managed to croak out a hoarse reply.  As the newcomer approached, Rachel sank her nails into the wooden armrests, fighting to force all her whirling thoughts and clashing feelings aside and recover, concentrating on the newly arrived guest.

He was huge, at least six-six, with shoulders to match.  He walked with the easy, powerful but graceful stride of an athlete, his skin dark and glowing like deep mahogany, his eyes wise and caring yet playful and humorous, his head shaven to a polished shine.  He seemed to fill the small shop completely, both with his physical size and his personality. She liked him immediately.

“What’s this?  Y’all’s havin’ lady friends in?  I sure hope I ain’t inerruptin’ nuthin’?”

Garfield rolled his eyes.  “Give it a rest, Cue Ball! Of course not!” He turned to Rachel with an apologetic smile on his face.  “That’s my friend Vic, the one I told you about!”

“I hope you’ve been tellin’ her nothin’ but the worst, Shorty!”  Victor laughed, extending his hand. “Victor Stone, girl. And you’re…” 

Rachel rose to shake the big man’s hand, just about ready to introduce herself, when his eyes widened suddenly.

“Rachel Roth?” he exclaimed.  “Holy shhhh… ishkebab! You’re  _ Rachel Roth! _ ”

She blushed, but managed to nod and smile and take his enormous paw.  Her small hand almost disappeared in it.

“Whoa, missy, now this is a shock!  I’m… It’s a great honor!” he spoke, his voice loud but not unpleasant, his eyes shining with joy.

“Good to meet you, Victor!”  Her smile widened as he pumped her hand continuously without showing any sign of stopping soon.  “I do need that hand to play, you know!” she teased him gently. He laughed again and released her.

“Hah!  Sorry, girl, I got carried away there!” he said.  “Big fan of yours, that’s who I am!”

She sat down back on the chair while Victor turned to Garfield, a small frown appearing on his face.  “You! Tinkerbell! Why the hell didntcha tell me you had Rachel Roth hidden in here?”

Garfield scratched the back of his head.  “Well, I…”

“I asked him to keep it quiet!” Rachel lied quickly, seeing that Garfield was caught flat-footed by his friend’s question.  “Please don’t be angry at him!”

Victor turned to her, his frown clearing and a smile spreading over his face.  “OK, I can understand that! You’re right, girl. Y’know, I like you even better now I met you in person.  Y’all have a sense of humor!” he grinned. “Shouldn’t surprise me. Anyone that can play Mozart’s  _ Third Violin Concerto _ the way you did is bound to have one!”

She blushed at his praise.  “You saw it?”

“Sure did, girl!  You were amazing!”

“What brings ya here, Vic?” Garfield interrupted them, an obvious note of annoyance in his voice.  Victor turned his grin to him.

“Already sold what y’all gave me, came here for more!”  He turned back to Rachel. “I run a music shop a few blocks away.  I always try to have a couple of his instruments on consignment. They never gather dust!”

Garfield frowned.  “Don’t have any right now.  I was just…”

Victor’s eyes went to the workbench and he chuckled.  “Making one? Yeah, I can see that!”

Garfield shuffled his feet, suddenly uncomfortable.  “Well, yeah, about that…”

Stone frowned.  “Is it an on-demand job?  You just finished one!”

“No, it’s not on-demand, but…  I’ll explain later!” came the evasive reply.  The big man lifted an eyebrow. Understanding sparked in his eyes.  “I see. Well, next time make sure you get one ready for me. I sure could use the percentage!”

Rachel got up from the chair.  “I’ll leave you guys to your business dealings.  I really must go.”

Victor turned to face her again, frowning.  “Yo, girl, dontcha dare leave on account of me!”  He looked at her carefully, his frown turning into a knowing grin.  “I mean, if I caught y’all in an inappropriate moment, I’ll leave and let the two of you get on with it…”

Rachel couldn’t see herself, but she could notice Garfield’s face turning crimson, the tips of his ears glowing.  She was positive her own blush was even worse. The large youth’s grin widened.

_ So, I really saw what I thought I saw when I stepped in.  My eyes weren’t deceiving me. Well, well, well. Y’all’s got some explainin’ to do, Gar. _

“N – No, I really… really have to go, I have to… to get ready for the trip.  Yes, that’s it. I travel to Paris, and…” Rachel stammered as she tried to extricate herself from the awkward situation.  “See you later!” she told the floor and walked quickly to the door, feeling her face burn like a forest fire.

Garfield ran after her, opening the door and letting her out, stepping outside after her, not without first sending a withering glare towards his friend, who received it with an even further widening of his already enormous grin.

“Rachel!” he called out to her, his hand touching her shoulder.  “Please…”

She turned around and tried to look at him, but her gaze dropped down right away.  “Gar, I’m sorry…”

“No, please, if there’s anyone who should feel sorry it’s me, I shouldn’t have…”

She shook her head, unable to speak.  He felt despair seep into him, misunderstanding her gesture.  “Look, I don’t know what came over me, I’m sorry. I just want you to… I want to remain your friend, OK?  It’s important to me. I don’t want you to think that I’m… I’m sorry if I…” his voice trailed off, uncertain and afraid.  She still gazed at the floor, silent.

Desperate situations called for desperate measures.  The hand on her shoulder tightened its grasp, the other cupped her chin and gently lifted her face up, forcing her to look at him.

“Please, just tell me you’ll be coming by again after you return.”

She stood motionless for a few moments, then gripped his arms and leaned closer, planted a quick but fierce kiss on his lips and ran away, vanishing around the corner.  Garfield was struck motionless except for a hand that slowly lifted to touch his lips. He stood there for quite a while, until the shop door opened behind him and a huge hand grabbed him by the scruff of his neck and dragged him inside.

* * *

 

“You  _ dog! _  You dirty  _ alley-cat! _ ” Stone’s voice shook with suppressed mirth.  He waggled an exaggeratedly accusing finger at his friend.  “Here I am, tryin’ my damn best to hook y’all up with a nice girl, feelin’ sorry for ya, and what happens?  I walk in and I see y’all makin’ out with none other than  _ Rachel Roth! _ ”

“We weren’t makin’ out, dude!”

“Looked that way to me!” Victor answered, a wide smirk on his face.  “I do seem to recall hearing some sucking noises coming from the shop before I stepped inside!”

Garfield’s face darkened again, but this time not from embarrassment.  “Knock it off, willya? I told ya, we weren’t makin’ out! I was just…”

“You were just givin’ the poor girl CPR when she fainted in your strong arms?”

“Cut it out already!  She’s not like that!” Garfield shouted.  “She’s…”

The large youth looked carefully at his friend and lifted an eyebrow.

“Oh, man, you’ve got it bad!” he chuckled.  “Gar Logan, you are in some deep doo-doo, my man!”

Garfield scowled at him, his face a deep, angry red.  “Dontcha have something better to do, like polish your head?”

Stone chuckled, then grabbed his friend in a bear hug.  “Just teasin’ ya, bro! Cool down and get a couple of coffees brewin’!”  He released him and ruffled his hair. “We gotta talk!”

Garfield allowed himself to be mollified and turned to the niche, filling the kettle and placing it on the hot plate.  He turned around to see Victor leaning on the workbench, watching him intently.

“What did you want to talk about?”

His large friend chuckled.  “Oh, I ain’t gonna talk about nuthin’.  I’m just gonna listen!”

“Listen to what?” Garfield frowned.

“To you tellin’ me everything!”  Stone concluded with a grin, sitting comfortably on the workbench, making the thick, strong wooden surface bend under his two hundred and fifty-odd pounds.

Garfield rolled his eyes and sighed.  “All right!” he said and launched himself into the story.

 


	5. Chapter 5

Gar sat on the couch in his big friend’s house, his thoughts far away.  

He brushed the tips of his fingers over his lips again.  Two weeks, and still they tingled and burned. He could still feel her hands gripping his arms, still hear the quick, soft hiss of her breath as she leaned in and left her mark on him, branding him, binding him in unbreakable chains and clearing his mind of any other thought but of her, leaving the rest of his body to run on auto-pilot and perform his daily routines without ever realizing he went through the onerous tasks of showering, eating, working and sleeping.

It was all so strange.  He couldn’t stop thinking about her.  He watched the days without her pass him by one after the other, meaningless and empty, like a passenger in a train observing the landscape unroll outside, without finding anything worthwhile that would arouse his interest.  He did the requested repairs and restorations mechanically but meticulously and professionally, his customers more than satisfied with his expertise. And yet the rush of warmth, contentment and pride in his work he so thrived on was almost gone, attenuated to the point of barely stirring inside him.

Somehow it did not matter.  Somehow all of his skill and all of his art were insignificant, meaningless, irrelevant.  The joy they used to bring him was now tied up and locked in the few pieces of wood resting on a shelf in his workshop, waiting for her, silently and dreamily, just like he was.

Often the longing to take it and start working on it would cut through him like a sickle, almost as strong and painful as the yearning he felt to see her and hear her and touch her.  But he had made her a promise, and the impossibly, exquisitely agonizing sensation living on his lips and in his heart reminded him of it every minute of every hour of every day.

Victor’s heavy strides approached and pulled him out of his contemplation.  He placed a thin, fragile lid over those thoughts, a flimsy cover that he knew would be torn off easily by the first flash of violet, reminding him again of her eyes and the way the light reflected from her hair.  He sighed deeply, turning to look at his friend.

He rolled his eyes.  “This is a  _ concert, _ dude, not a  _ movie! _ ” he growled at the large man in annoyance when he saw him carrying a gallon bucket of popcorn from the kitchen over to the living room and sinking into the comfortable couch beside him, ready to enjoy the webcast of Rachel’s Paris concert.

Victor grinned at his friend’s irritation.  “Y’all sure ya don’t want some?”

Garfield scowled.  “I want to listen to the  _ music, _ Cue Ball!  That means that I’d ask you to keep the crunching and the munching  _ down, _ OK?”

“I could be drillin’ a hole in the floor with a jackhammer and you wouldn’t hear it, Shrimp!” Victor teased him, his grin becoming toothy.  “I bet you’ll have ears only for your  _ girlfriend _ there!”

“She’s not – Do you mind?  It’s about to start!” Gar grumbled uncomfortably back at Victor, turning to the screen and pretending to ignore his friend’s silent chuckles.

The webcast started.  He shrugged everything away, focusing on it.  Still images of the conductor and the soloist appeared on the screen and Garfield leaned forward, enraptured, ignoring the legend scrolling below that informed the spectators of the program; Bach’s  _ Violin concerto in A minor  _ and  _ Violin concerto in E major.   _ Noticing his reaction, Victor smothered a laugh, then frowned.

_ He’s really smitten with her.  I’ve never seen him this way, so enthralled, so… in love.  I just hope this will all have a nice ending. _

The camera zoomed in on Rachel as she approached the podium, greeted politely the conductor and the First Violinist and then bowed gracefully to the audience.  His eyes devoured the screen with almost savage earnestness, trying to capture every pixel of her image.

The music flowed from her with a startling intensity right from the beginning.  A short but powerful pain lanced through him as he saw her cheeks glow a powdery pink ever so slightly while she lost herself in her interpretation, her eyes closing almost completely, opened barely enough to be able to see and follow the conductor.  It reminded him of the expression she had when she played for him, when… when the doors of her soul opened just a tiny crack and he had that quick, ephemeral, barely caught glimpse inside.

He realized it was not just a personal preference or a coincidence that she loved to perform Bach more than anything.  There was a geometric, almost fractal complexity in his music, a mathematical structure of repeating spirals and mirroring forms endlessly breaking up and combining into new ones, folding into themselves to be reshaped and reinvented, a fresh twist born every time from the ever-changing source, then fed back into itself to create something completely distinct and yet the same, something absolutely unique and yet unchanged, something disturbingly different and yet comfortingly familiar.  But beneath all that geometry and algebra there was an overwhelming passion, a volcano of searing emotions, a roiling sea of excited feelings that swirled and whirled and churned, consciously unheard and rationally unfelt, yet affecting heart and soul and mind with impossible heaviness, opening old wounds just to soothe them immediately, tearing away the restraints and wraps on all sorrows, letting them out, cleansing and healing, leaving behind purity and calm.

He listened, barely allowing himself to breathe, blinking only when his eyes hurt with dryness.  Her interpretation was powerful, the passion bursting from the mathematical convolution of the music in a stunning geometry of love and hope and joy, making his soul ache as the lines and triangles pierced and cut it with sweet suffering while the spirals and parabolas wound around it, soothing and healing.  She played her feelings out and at the same time reached deep into the emotions of the audience, leaving no one unmoved and unaffected, until it was finally over, way too soon and way too painfully. She lowered the violin and looked up.

The silence was absolute for two seconds.  He saw a trace of fear creep into her eyes.

The theater exploded in applause and cheering.  Garfield relaxed back, the magic of her music finally letting him go.  He turned to his friend and saw him wipe his eyes.

“I’ll be damned.  I never thought Bach could make me cry,” Victor said hoarsely, then looked at the huge bucket of popcorn.  It was barely touched. He turned to Garfield, his gaze boring into the young luthier’s eyes.

“Garfield Mark Logan,” he said, his voice soft but passionate.  “That girl there is the best thing that could’ve happened to ya.  Now y’all be damn sure to make her happy and keep her that way, y’hear?  She deserves it.”

Gar nodded, looking back at the screen.  The applause was still thundering on. Rachel bowed to the public again, her face blushing but her smile radiant.  He felt his chest swell with joy and pride.

A young man appeared on the stage, carrying a huge bouquet of flowers.  He placed them beside Rachel and took her in a fierce hug, lifting her off her feet.  She was obviously happy about it, returning the hug and kissing the man’s cheek, her face hiding in his shoulder.

Garfield frowned.  “Who the hell is that guy?”

“That’s Richard Grayson.  He’s her patron,” Victor replied, the tone of Gar’s voice making him turn his attention to the luthier and study him carefully.  “Don’t tell me you’re jealous, Tinkerbell!”

“Why would I be?” Garfield replied, his frown deepening into a scowl.  “She’s not… I mean, not like we’re… Y’know, I’m not…”

“He’s not her boyfriend, Gar!” Stone said seriously.  “He’s got a girl, and from what I’ve heard, she’s a stunner.  So quit yer worryin’!”

Garfield’s scowl softened back into a frown, but that was as far as it would go.

“I’m tellin’ ya, bro, he’s not –” Victor tried again, a spark of anxiety flashing through him.

“I heard you the first time!” Gar cut him off viciously, staring at the screen and trying to discern her again through the credits that were slowly rolling away.  Vic’s hand fell on his shoulder.

“You’re being an idiot, Gar.  You’re ruining a wonderful afternoon for yourself and for me, and all over nothing.”

Garfield tore his eyes away from the screen and turned to face his friend, his frown deepening again, a snarl building in his throat.  But the keen concern he saw in Victor’s eyes pulled him back, the angry words that boiled and bubbled in his throat simmering down and fading away, his insides unclenching and his face relaxing.

“You’re right, Muscle Brain.  I’m getting twisted all outta shape over nothing.”

“Damn right you are!” Stone grumbled.  Gar chuckled.

“Well, while I’m here, how ‘bout we use that huge screen you’ve got there for a game of  _ Ninja Fury XII? _ ”

Stone grinned hugely.  “I’m  _ so _ gonna kick yer skinny butt, Shrimp!”

Garfield chuckled again and reached for the controller.  “In your dreams!”

* * *

 

Gar clicked through yet another link on his search, going to yet another review of Rachel’s last night’s performance.  Finding what looked like a rather extensive one, he nodded in satisfaction and started reading, savoring the feeling of warmth and pride that filled him as the reviewer gushed over Rachel’s fantastic interpretation.  So far he hadn’t found a single negative review; in fact, they all went from glowing to enthusiastic to positively ecstatic. His grin widened. He figured that if he  _ did _ happen to find an unfavorable one, he’d make sure to get the name of the critic and then go beat him up.

Finishing the article, he sipped his coffee and basked in his happiness.  He couldn’t remember having such a pleasant morning since… well, ever. His reading filled him with delight, and the joy brought by the knowledge that she would be returning soon was almost euphoric.  He went back to the search results and looked for the next article.

He frowned, opened the link in a new tab and switched to it.

His heart froze in his chest.

There was a picture of Rachel with that…  _ guy… _ sitting outside a café, their heads close together, his hand on hers, apparently sharing a joke, judging from Rachel’s laugh and his smiling… no, not smiling,  _ snickering _ face.  A wave of almost primal rage threatened to envelop him.   _ Who the hell does that guy think he is? _

His eyes went to the title and began scanning the text quickly.

_ Fiery Flirting in France _

_ PARIS – Millionaire playboy Richard ‘Dick’ Grayson was spotted yesterday in the very affectionate company of his protégé, the star violinist Rachel Roth, enjoying themselves right after the excellent performance she offered here, in the City of Lights.  Grayson was known to be engaged to Tamaranian supermodel Kori Anders, but she has not been seen with him recently, and rumors have it that the two have broken up. Seeing Grayson and Roth as close as our photo shows, it is easy to guess at a possible reason behind it.  Grayson, as Roth’s patron, was the decisive influence behind her dazzlingly fast rise to stardom, and the interpretation she gave yesterday has now firmly established her as – _

His vision blurred and his insides flipped over.  He gripped the computer mouse so hard that the plastic squealed in protest.

He returned again to the search results, now oblivious to the reviews.  He typed in a new search for Grayson and Roth and filtered it for the last 24 hours.  The screen filled with results instantly.

Each new page he opened tore another gash in his heart, each one made his jaw clench tighter, each one pricked his eyes with burning needles.  But he couldn’t stop himself. He didn’t pay attention to the words any more. He switched to image search and felt ice searing his insides.

Photos of the two of them walking down a street, her arm wrapped around his.  Of him taking her hand to help her get out of a huge black limo. Of his arm around her waist while her head was on his shoulder and a happy smile on her face.

He sat there for a long while, his mind blanketed by successive waves of rage and anguish, jaw clenched so tightly it wouldn’t surprise him to see blood seeping from his gums.

A large hand fell on his shoulder.  He ignored it.

“Yer seein’ things that’re not there, Gar.”

His neck muscles uncramped just enough to turn his head and look at his friend.

“Am I?  Do these photos lie?”

Victor scowled.  “No. The photos do not lie.  But those gossip sites are puttin’ a spin on them, and y’all’s lickin’ it up like ice cream.”

“I see what I see, Vic!” Gar snarled, his eyes narrowed.  “It’s plain as day. I see two –”

“You see two close friends having a good time!”  Victor shouted at him. “Snap out of it! Is there  _ one single picture _ of them kissing, or being anything more than friendly?  What the hell’s  _ wrong _ with you?”

They both glared at each other, breathing heavily.  Vic spoke again, his tone now almost pleading.

“Gar, please, listen to me.  Like it or not, since her performance yesterday, Rachel is an international superstar.  Like it or not, she’ll be hounded by paparazzi, scandalmongers and gossip peddlers, and every move she makes will be twisted and distorted into whatever those…  _ people… _ want.  Like it or not, they live from pushing this sh… stuff, and they’ll make up whatever juicy story they want that’ll sell more ads and gain more page views.  Do you understand?”

The feral rage subsided slowly and drained away from Garfield’s eyes.  His gaze softened and fell on the floor.

“I… guess I was a gullible idiot.”

Stone breathed a long sigh of relief.  His paw squeezed his friend’s shoulder.  “Can’t but agree with y’all, Shorty!”

Gar leaned his elbows on the workbench and cradled his head in his hands.

“Vic, I…  I dunno what’s happening to me.  I just… I can’t get her out of my mind, and I…  The thought of her being with someone else, it’s tearing me apart.”

“It’s called ‘being in love’, lil’ buddy.”

Logan dropped his arms and shook his head.  “I dunno, man.”

Stone slapped his back, almost throwing him on the workbench.  “Let’s go get sumthin’ to eat. I’m hungry!”

His friend glared at him.  “Is eating always your answer to everything?”

“The best one there is!” Victor grinned and dragged Garfield out.

* * *

 

Logan was quite surprised to find out that his friend was right.  The change of scenery, the pleasant surroundings and the act of eating good food did turn his mind away from dark thoughts.  He returned to the shop calm and satisfied and finished his working day way ahead of his self-imposed schedule. As he was preparing to leave and go home, his eyes fell on the shelf where the unfinished instrument languished.

“Soon.  It’ll be very soon now,” he whispered to it, smiled and left.

But it wasn’t.  In fact, more than a week had passed since that day already, and all the time his anxiety grew and his restlessness mounted.  What was keeping her? Did something happen? The news sites were completely silent, apparently just as much at a loss as to her location as he was.

Where was she?

He opened up the shop and put on the kettle to make himself coffee, turned on his laptop and logged in.  He busied himself with small things, waiting for the water to boil. Finally, with a steaming mug of coffee in his hand and an almost unbearable anxiety in his heart, he sat down in front of the laptop and opened the news pages that he frequented lately, looking for any indication that she might have returned.  It was a routine he performed religiously during the last week, his expectation and apprehension growing each day, the disappointment at not finding anything becoming more painful every time.

And then he saw it.

_ … late last night, when the couple was seen boarding the plane that would take them back to the States.  Their recent disappearance from our radar screens has been resolved as well; the violinist and the millionaire spent the last week on Grayson’s yacht, cruising the Mediterranean… _

His  _ yacht? _

His  _ yacht. _

The revelation burst on him.  His folly, his stupid hope, his idiotic, baseless belief that she could ever have even a passing interest in him.  She was a superstar, for crying out loud! Why would she waste her time with him? She now moved in circles of fame, wealth and power, stratospheric heights populated only by folk like that Grayson guy and his ilk.  And he? He had nothing to offer to her. He was a glorified carpenter with a small shop in the seedier part of town. The goddamn  _ closets _ in Grayson Manor were probably bigger than his sorry excuse for a workplace.  How could’ve he been so  _ blind? _

There were no pictures, but he didn’t need any to know exactly what was going on.  Victor was wrong. And even if he wasn’t, you don’t spend a week on someone’s goddamn  _ yacht _ cruising the goddamn  _ Mediterranean _ and stay goddamn  _ friends. _  No, he wasn’t that stupid to believe that kind of crap.  Not any more, at least.

He breathed deeply, eyes squeezed tightly shut, teeth grinding against each other, burning agony searing his insides.  Tears of rage and sorrow burst out of him, but he cursed them and denied them and tried to force them to go back in and to dry out.  He sat there for a long time, fighting the anger and the despair, his hands hurting as the muscles cramped from the force he used to clench his fists against the trembling.  When he finally managed to calm down enough to be rational again, he was exhausted.

He turned the laptop off.  That was that. It was obvious he wouldn’t see her ever again.  Another painful episode in his life, another splash of acid that would burn and eat at his soul forever.  He bit off and swallowed the smoldering bitterness, forcing it down. He would live through it. He’d gone through enough sorrow already to be used to the feeling by now.  Life would go on, and he would grit his teeth and keep pushing ahead. There wasn’t much else left to do.

Again he sighed and leaned back in the chair.  He opened his eyes and his gaze roamed over the workshop, stopping on the shelf.  A sad smile crossed his face. He got up and lowered the pieces of the unfinished instrument onto the workbench.

There was work to be done.

* * *

 

As soon as they arrived in Grayson Manor, Rachel went straight for the shower.  The long flight left her feeling sticky and she wanted to look her best before seeing him.  She stepped under the blast of hot water, feeling it wash off the tiredness and cramping from the protracted journey.

As much as she had enjoyed the relaxing vacation after the grueling preparations and the taxing performance, she was glad it was over.  And with Kori returning later today from Tamaran, the place would receive a welcome infusion of cheer and joy, feelings that her friend always seemed to carry in an inexhaustible supply on her.  Hopefully, it would make Richard lighten up, also. He was morose and aloof all week during their cruise, missing Kori greatly while he waited for her to return from her country, where she had to handle some delicate family affairs.

She shook the thoughts away.  Right now she needed to finish the shower, dress and run over to his shop.  She could already imagine the glow in his clear, deep green eyes as he saw her.  He would be so happy that she was back, and he would… she remembered his gentle embrace, and the feeling of his lips on hers, and her knees trembled.  Would he? She was still appalled at her own brazen act, but she couldn’t resist giggling when she remembered the expression on his face when she kissed him.  The fact that her own daring made her run away in terror the very next second did nothing to smother her mirth.

She smirked.  Well, now she knew she could do it.  So if he was still too shy to kiss her, she would take matters into her own hands.  That is to say, her own lips.

She dried and brushed her hair quickly.  She was toying with the idea of letting it grow longer for a while, but right now she was glad she kept it short; it made her preparations so much quicker.  She scanned the contents of her closet, then decided for her usual, loose and utilitarian attire. She just could not wait any longer. Throwing it on almost haphazardly, she ran off, throwing a breathless “Bye!” to a surprised Richard.

Within minutes she was opening the shop door, the familiar soft chime of the bells heightening the delicious jitters coursing through her.  She stepped in and immediately noticed his back bent over the workbench. She stepped closer, barely able to smother yet another giggle.

He sensed her scent as soon as the door opened.  It exploded in his mind and his heart, tearing them apart.  His thoughts whirled, unchained, confusing and painful inside a numb head.  He gripped the edge of the workbench until the pain in his fingers burned through the blinding tornado enveloping him.  He slowly rose and turned to her.

He couldn’t help himself.  He knew it was going to hurt.  He knew it would tear his heart out and burn his soul to bitter ash.  But he couldn’t help himself. He looked into her eyes and the pain almost doubled him over.

The amethyst crystals of her eyes were shining with happiness and love.  Then confusion replaced it. Apprehension. Fear.  _ Panic. _

“Why are you here?”

Her mouth worked, unable to form words.  Her joy, her love, her delight dropped off her as soon as she saw his eyes, not the clear, deep emeralds that she loved and yearned so much for, but the mirror-like, dark, polished malachite that now reflected her gaze back at her; cold, unfeeling, rejecting.

“Gar…?”

The choked word at least made her able to breathe again.  Pain and terror filled her while her mind shrunk from it all, whimpering and cradling one single thought in its desperate embrace.

_ Again… All over again… _

He stepped closer.

“It’s fine, Rachel.  Really, it is,” he said hoarsely.  “I understand. He’s so much more than I am.  You don’t have to pretend. It was stupid of me to…  No matter. You’ll be happy with him. But please… Go.  Leave.  _ Now. _ ”

Gentle hands grasped her and turned her around.  The door opened and the arm around her shoulder pushed her, shocked and unresisting, out of the shop.  The door closed. The sound of the key turning in the lock was as loud as the crash of a hammer driving nails into a coffin.

Despair at last made her move.  She whirled to the door, her legs giving way as she pressed her face into it and slid down to the pavement, a hand clawing ineffectually on the glass and metal.  Tears flowed unfelt from her eyes. She breathed a last word, a last scream for help against the numbness and stupor and daze that was burying and drowning her.

“Gar…”

 


	6. Chapter 6

“Rachel?” a deep, concerned voice sounded in her ears, but the meaning of the word never registered in her torn-up mind.  “What happened to y’all, girl?”

Strong hands tried to help her get up, but her legs were nerveless slabs of putty.  She simply slid down again, face pressed into the metal, hand clawing weakly at the glass.

Victor tried the door.  It was locked. He scowled; it did not take much intelligence to figure out what happened.

“I’ll wring yer neck for this, Tinkerbell!” a quiet but furious growl again went through her ears, only to get lost in the hopeless maze of her thoughts.  Powerful arms scooped her up effortlessly. She didn’t react.

Victor slammed an indignant boot into the locked steel-and-glass door.  It shook, but held.

“Gar!  Open this goddamn door right now, y’hear?”

Nothing happened.  The door remained closed.  Victor’s face darkened and his voice shook with rage.

“Dammit, Gar!  Open up or I swear I’ll –”

A small whimper came from Rachel.  He was suddenly aware that his furious shouting was terrifying her.  For a moment he stood motionless, unable to decide what to do, then his scowl hardened and he made up his mind.

He whistled piercingly for a cab, soon stopping one.  He placed a limp, unresisting Rachel carefully on the rear seat, closed the door and went around the vehicle, opening the far door to sit beside her.

“Grayson Manor!” he barked at the innocent cabbie.

* * *

 

“It’s good to have you back!” Richard whispered to his recently arrived girlfriend, enveloping her in a ferocious hug.  The tall redhead returned his hug just as fervently, then kissed him deeply.

“I suffered the longing for you,” she whispered back.  “We have much of the catching up to do, yes?”

He smiled and nuzzled her ear.  “We do. Wanna get on it right away?”

She giggled.  He loved her giggle.  It was crystal clear, musical and happy.  Her infectious joy was a welcome glow that lit up his soul, chasing away the oppressive gloominess that enveloped him way too often.

“As soon as I take the shower,” she told him, a playful glint in her green eyes.  “And as soon as I say the hello to friend Rachel.”

“She’s not in,” he grinned.  “And as far as the shower is concerned, I have an idea…”

The interphone rang.  They both groaned. Richard strode over and answered it, his face hardening into a scowl as he listened.

“Bring them here.”

* * *

 

Rachel was carried to her room and placed into her bed, an anxious Kori fussing over her.  Richard caught her eye and she nodded, understanding. 

“I shall remain here with friend Rachel,” she said in a tight voice.  “Please leave us to the quiet and the peace now.”

Richard gripped the large man’s arm above the elbow and guided him out of Rachel’s room and into an adjacent library-like chamber.  He sat down in an armchair and motioned to its twin close by.

“Sit.  Speak.”

“You’re welcome,” Victor growled.

Richard’s eyes flashed dangerously.  “I have no idea what your role is in all this.  If necessary, I will apologize profusely and sincerely later.   _ After _ you tell me what the hell is going on.”

Victor scowled and his fists clenched, but he realized the man was angry and looking for a target for his rage.  Grayson’s affection and concern for Rachel were obvious; Stone doubted he himself would’ve reacted any differently in such a situation.  He swallowed his resentment, sat down and began the story.

“I’ve got a friend. A luthier.  Name’s Garfield Logan. Used to be Steve Dayton’s apprentice, before Steve died and left him the shop and the business…”

Vic was not a great storyteller and his emotional involvement made him often jump ahead, get sidetracked or leave out important details.  But Grayson guided him through it expertly, his coldness slowly thawing as the story took shape, his remarks and quick questions keeping the huge youth on track and allowing the details to come out.

“… so when I saw her there in front of the shop I knew right away what he did.”

“This Logan guy sounds like a complete moron!” Grayson snarled viciously. “What kind of idiot believes what the gossip sites write anyway?”

“The same kind of idiot that judges people before he gets to know them!” Stone hissed back.  “If y’all’s gonna be insultin’, I’ve got better things to do!”

Richard took a deep breath, forcing calm on himself.  “ _ Touché _ .  I deserved that.  Why don’t you fill me in?”

“He’s a guy that has lived through too much sorrow and too little kindness and love,” Victor began, his frown slowly clearing.  “He’s had a hard life, but he’s a good person. I think he just can’t get himself to expect or to believe that he can be happy for once.  He’s been burned badly way too many times.”

Grayson grunted noncommittally.  “Care to enlighten me?”

The big youth nodded.  “His parents were biologists, naturalists and great wildlife documentarists.  Some of their creations are considered the pinnacle of the art, incredibly made even by today’s standards.  That was, of course, until they… until the accident.”

Again Richard listened, encouraging Victor to go on with short, interested grunts and quick remarks, keeping him on track with pertinent questions, until Garfield’s history came out completely.

Victor finished his tale, heaved out a gusty sigh and grinned at Richard.  “Can I get a glass of water? My throat’s dry from so much talking.”

Richard grinned back.  “I think I can do better than that.  What’s your poison?”

Stone shrugged.  “Don’t go much for that stuff, but I could use a barley sandwich if y’all’s got any that’s decent.”

“Czech Pilsner OK?” Grayson asked mischievously.  Stone lifted a surprised eyebrow. “I could live with it.”

Grayson picked up the interphone and spoke softly into it, then turned to Victor.

“Thanks for telling me all that.  What he did was incredibly stupid, but at least now I can begin to understand him.”

Victor frowned.  “I know, and I’ve gotta agree with y’all, even though he’s my friend.  Damn!” he slapped a huge hand on his knee in frustration. “I should’ve seen it comin’.  I should’ve kept my eye on that shrimp!”

A servant came silently in, lowered a tray with two glasses and two bottles of beer and left without pouring them, having caught a tiny shake of Richard’s head.  The door closed and they were alone again. Stone poured himself the beer while Grayson watched him intently, gauging him.

“Rachel’s background isn’t all roses and pink unicorns, either,” he said, making a sudden decision.  “She is strong. The strongest girl I’ve ever met.” He poured his own beer and leaned back into the armchair, taking a sip.  “But even a steel bar can be broken if you beat on it long enough.”

Victor’s dark eyes looked up, the interest shining in them.  Richard’s gaze lost focus as he gathered his thoughts. “Her father was an alcoholic.  He made her learn to play the violin since she was little more than a toddler. His idea was to show her off as a wonder child and make money that way.”

He studied the glass in his hands with rapt interest, trying but failing to keep a wrathful growl from his voice.  “She had little in the way of childhood. Her day consisted of sleeping, eating and practicing, when she was not beaten for a wrong note or a failed phrase.”

The anger in his eyes deepened.  “Her mother… was helpless. She was too in love or too terrified of her husband to do anything about it.  Maybe both, I don’t know. Twice the cops arrested him for assault, battery and domestic violence. Twice she testified in court that she fell down the stairs.  The prosecutor couldn’t prove anything and the… and he walked free.”

He ran his hand through his dark, spiky hair.  “He was able to get Rachel on TV several times, but as these things always go, any miracle lasts for two or three months, then the public loses interest.  The TV stations did not renew the contract and the goose stopped laying the golden eggs. You have one guess as to who her father blamed for it. She ended up busking, playing the violin on the streets for tips.  She was actually quite successful, unsurprising considering her skill and her talent.”

He sighed.  “That’s how I found her.  I was walking down the street with Kori when we saw and heard her.  I was… I could say ‘amazed’, but I think a better word would be ‘fascinated’.  We tried to talk to her, but she was too shy; she slunk away and tried to hide from us.  We followed her until she got home, then I called some friends of mine.”

Grayson lifted his cold, blue eyes and looked at Stone.  “I’m a rich man, Victor. That means I wield a certain amount of power, and I don’t mind using it to its fullest in case I feel I should.  This was one of those cases.”

“My friends kept an eye on her day and night, making sure she was safe while busking.  They nosed around the neighborhood and asked questions. They checked police and judicial records, spoke to grocers and bartenders.  The picture filled in slowly. It disgusted me. I went to my stepfather and demanded that he do something about it. Our lawyers began working on the case, to take custody of the girl, relocate her mother, and lock her father away for a very long time.”

He sighed, leaned forward and placed the half-empty glass delicately on a stand beside his armchair.  “We were too late.”

Victor stared at him, jaw muscles bunched.  “I think I know where this is going,” he said in a dry, tense voice.

Richard nodded.  “That night he was… drunker than usual, I guess.  Or maybe his system was already way too poisoned. Be it as it may, he lost it.  The neighbors were used to the shouting, so by the time they called the police, it was too late.  At least for her mother.”

Stone’s throat was dry.  He swallowed a sip of his beer.  Richard went on.

“I have some influence in the JCPD.  My friends called me and I came over immediately with Kori.  She managed to calm Rachel and we took her home with us.”

He fell silent, his breathing steady but deep.  Stone relaxed back into the armchair, his face composed but the fingers around the glass pale.

“It took her a year to start trusting us,” Grayson continued in a flat voice.  “Another year before she started feeling comfortable around anyone else.”

“There is more?” Stone inquired, frowning.

“Yes.  Just as she managed to fight out of her shell, just as we were able to help her begin to live life, she ran into a… guy.”

The spiky-haired youth looked up and met Victor’s gaze.  “You know the type. Predators whose only purpose in life is to boast about the number of notches on their belts.” His voice became a growl.  “You could say she got lucky and found out about it before it went too far. But it devastated her.”

He drained what remained of his beer.  “As I said, she’s strong. She pulled out of that one, also.  Again she managed to poke her head out of the cave she was hiding in and again she started to enjoy life.  And again, as soon as she did…” he shook his head.

Victor cleared his throat.  “Look, I can’t defend what Gar did, but you gotta –”

“I know!” Richard cut him off with a quick wave of his hand.  “The question is, what now?”

The large man scowled.  “Now? Now I beat some sense into Garfield.  Then I drag his sorry ass over here and make him apologize.  After that…”

“After that it’ll be up to Rachel, I guess.”

“Up to both of them.”

Grayson frowned, but then nodded and got up.  “Don’t rush it. Give Rachel a couple of days to calm down.  Meanwhile, we’ll take care of her and look after her. You’ll have to do the same for your friend, from what I’ve heard.”

He offered Victor a business card.  “That’s my private number. Call me up anytime, day or night.”

Stone also got up.  He shook Richard’s hand.  “I will. I just hope we can fix this.”

“We can’t,” Grayson said, the ice in his eyes breaking at last and letting the sorrow out.  “Only they can.”

* * *

 

He was only dimly aware of the passage of time.  He would be surprised if someone told him it had been more than two days since he pushed Rachel out of the shop and, he hoped, out of his heart and out of his life.

He was starving, his body demanding sustenance, but the mere thought of food made his bile rise.  He was tired, his eyes losing focus, but sleep would just slip away from him. He took a deep breath and tried to steady himself and will away the tremors.  Focusing back on the only thing that kept him sane the last two days, he moved the gouge over the spruce board that will become the top of the violin’s sound box.  The gouge bit deep into the wood, much deeper than he wanted. He cursed softly.

He leaned back into the chair, forgetting himself and allowing his eyes to close.  His hope for forgetfulness and oblivion was instantly shattered and tears welled up in his eyes, convulsed sobs tearing him apart, indifferent to his efforts to swallow and choke them.  The image of her eyes played again in his mind, the love and joy fading away, pain and fear taking their place. He bent, trying to smother the burning pain in his gut, until his forehead touched the workbench, the cool feeling of the wooden surface searing him like it was hot iron.

Slowly he swam up through the sea of anguish until he was able to open his eyes again.  Sounds of pounding on his door came clear now, together with the returning vision, as his awareness switched back from internal turmoil to external input.  He sighed deeply; he was ignoring Victor for way too long. He would have to face him sooner or later, and right now was as good a moment as any. He rose slowly, haltingly, and walked on uncertain legs the short distance to the door.

He turned the key and the door was immediately pushed open.  He caught a glimpse of his huge friend’s face just before his weakened legs gave way.  A strong hand steadied him and dragged him inside.

“Drink this!” Victor grumbled as he forced a smoothie into Garfield’s trembling hands.  He had been expecting to see the luthier in this state and knew it was still too early for solid food.  He guided Garfield over to the workbench and helped him sit on the chair while he greedily sucked on the smoothie.  Stone studied him closely, hoping Gar would not throw it all back up.

The young man’s cheeks were gaunt, the appearance accentuated by the almost three days’ worth of unshaven stubble.  Dark circles under his eyes made it clear that he hasn’t been getting much – if any – sleep during that time. Victor sighed.  As much as he would love to do it  _ right now _ , ‘beating sense’ into him would be counter-productive.  He needed him lucid and rational.

He didn’t have to wait long for Gar to finish the smoothie.  Color returned slowly to the pale cheeks and the eyes lost the feverish glint they had until a minute ago.  He was pulling out, at least physically.

“Better?” he asked, receiving a silent nod in response.  Turning to the niche, Victor filled the kettle and placed it on the hot plate.

“Vic, I know what you’re thinking, but –”

Stone turned to him, his hand going under his jacket and retrieving a folded newspaper.  He tossed it angrily on the workbench.

“Shut up and read it,” he said icily.  Garfield winced at his tone, picked up the newspaper, unfolded it and started reading.

It was a gossip rag, and the news were front page.  He looked at the picture, his eyes widening. He glanced at the title, disbelieving.  He scanned the text and his hands started shaking.

“He… has a girlfriend…”

“He does.”

“That means he… he’s not… they’re not…”

“They never were.”

Garfield looked up, his despairing eyes meeting Victor’s angry glare.  Then his shoulders slumped, a trembling hand covering his eyes, his lips moving soundlessly.

_ Nothing I could do to him could even come close to what he’s doing to himself right now _ , Victor thought with deep concern.   _ I just hope it doesn’t push him over the edge _ .

Suddenly Gar jumped up.

“I gotta go!” he barked and headed for the door.  A viselike hand clamped over his arm, stopping him.

“Not like that, you ain’t!”

He turned to Victor, his teeth bared.  “Lemme go! I have to see her! I have to –”

“No!” the large youth said, his eyes uncompromising.  “What you have to do now is eat, sleep, shower and shave.  In that order.  _ Then _ you can go and beg on bent knee for her to see you, listen to you and forgive you.”

The feral snarl on Garfield’s face relaxed and the unreasoning fire burning in his eyes subsided.  He went back and sat in the chair. He looked up at his large friend, his gaze now desperate.

“Vic, please… You gotta help me with this one.”

A huge but warm and comforting hand squeezed his shoulder.

“Of course.”

* * *

 

Rachel stopped the crooning, nameless melody she was playing to herself as she heard the gentle knocking.  Only one person knocked like that.

“Come in, Kori.”

The door opened and the tall Tamaranean walked in.  “Friend Rachel…”

“Yes?”

“Someone is here and wishes to have the words with you,” she said, carefully studying her suffering friend.  Rachel’s eyes were still puffy and red-rimmed, but she seemed much calmer now. 

The violinist lifted an eyebrow.  “With me? All right, I guess. Who is it?”

“It’s me,” Garfield said as he stepped in behind Kori.

For a few seconds there was complete silence.  Rachel opened her mouth and tried to say something, but failed.  She turned to her friend and found her voice.

“Please leave us alone a few minutes, Kori.”

“I shall be close if you require of my assistance,” the tall redhead said and retreated, closing the door behind her.  Rachel turned and walked to the violin case, willing her cramped fingers to let go of the instrument, depositing it with exaggerated care into the case.

Her back turned to him made it easier to speak.  “Kori said you wanted to talk with me. What is it?”

His voice started strong, but it quickly broke up.  “I wanted to… apologize. To say… I’m sorry.”

She released the tension on the bow and placed it in the holder, her hands now trembling.  A wave of rage rose in her.

“ _ Sorry _ .  What a convenient word,” she said viciously, turning to face him.  “What a delightful couple of syllables. You just let them fly out of your mouth and that’s it.  Everything’s fine again. There is no more  _ pain, _ no more  _ hurt, _ no more  _ crying! _ ” she shouted.  “Do you really think that word makes any difference to me after what you did?   _ Do you? _ ”

“Rachel…”

She stepped closer, her fists clenched and her eyes glowing with fury. _ “ _ Shut _ up! _ ” she screamed.  “Get out!  _ GET OUT! _ ”

“Rachel, please…”

“Didn’t you hear me?   _ OUT! _ ”

“Please, let me explain…”

“ _ Explain?  _  What is there to explain?  Do you want to make sure you break the few pieces of my heart that still remain? Didn’t you have enough  _ fun _ already?”

Her words tore his heart apart, the agony of it reflecting in his eyes.  She saw it and understood it, and it burned through the red haze of her rage, making her gasp.  She felt her throat suddenly squeeze shut and turned around, hiding her face from him.

“Please, Gar…” she said, barely able to keep her voice audible.  “Just go. Please.”

He spoke, his voice wooden and flat.  “As soon as I say what I came here to say.  I’m sorry I hurt you. I was an idiot. When I saw those… those lies, I believed them.  I love you, Rachel, and it made me act foolishly. I would never hurt you –”

She whirled around.  “What did you say?”

He gaped at her, stopped in the middle of his confession, absolutely confused.  “I… I don’t know.”

She stepped closer, her eyes now glowing intensely, but not with anger any more.  “What you just said. Repeat it.”

“I… I said I’m sorry.  I didn’t want… It’s just that I love you, and –”

“You… love me?” she whispered, her gaze boring into his eyes.

His hand went up and touched her cheek.  “From the moment you first walked into my shop,” he admitted hoarsely.  She stared at him for a few seconds, her gaze trying to pierce through into his mind and soul and wrench out the truth.  She pulled away from his touch and walked to her bed, sitting heavily on it.

“I don’t know if I can believe that, Gar,” she said softly.  “Not after what you did. And yet I wish so much I could…”

“Rachel, I –”

She squeezed her eyes shut.  She ached to believe him, to let herself go, to forget all her fears and all her anxiety… but she couldn’t; the dreaded specter of her previous heartbreak was gripping her heart with a freezing hand and pouring poison into her soul.  She shuddered.

“Hush.  Don’t say anything.”

She sat quietly while he stood watching her, both silent for a while, until she finally broke the stillness.  “I don’t know if I can trust you, Gar. I don’t know if I can trust myself.”

His eyes gleamed with earnestness.  “Then let me regain that trust. Please.  Give me another chance.”

She looked at him, hope fighting mistrust in her eyes, love battling with fear.

“I’m… not sure…”

Again she felt that he held her gaze imprisoned in the depths of his green eyes.  Again she tried to tear herself away from it, and again she failed. Again she had to close her eyes to break the spell.

She sighed heavily.  “I just don’t know, Gar.”

 


	7. Chapter 7

The storm dragged its flashing and roaring anger away from the city to grumble and groan ever farther, the distant rumble of thunder and the pouring rain the only thing it left behind.

_ No, not the only thing, _ Rachel thought as she took a deep breath of fresh, clean air, filling her lungs with the smell of ozone and renewal.  She strolled slowly through the deserted park, a wry smile creasing her face as she noted in passing a frowning policeman that eyed her warily, probably wondering why anyone would want to be out in such foul weather without dire need or obligation.

She was well-insulated against the rain in a bright yellow slicker, her head hidden deep under its hood, the rubber boots splashing unafraid and unaffected through puddles and rivulets.  Just because she loved the rain it didn’t mean she liked to get wet.

Her legs took her to the pond with unhurried, certain strides.  She needed time alone to think and to sort out her feelings. She needed time away from everyone, including her friends.  As affectionate as their concern for her was, it was also becoming confining and smothering. This was her problem, and she was going to deal with it on her own.

Stopping at the edge of the pond, she took another deep breath.  She stood motionless for a minute, the monotonous melody of falling droplets soothing her thoughts and caressing her soul.  Her hand poked out from the slicker to throw a dry bread crust into the water. Ducks and geese and swans approached quickly, their squabble over the small, sodden morsels flaring up immediately.  Rachel watched them with a smile, throwing crumbs and small pieces of hard bread to whichever bird she saw was losing the battle for food.

Droplets gathered and thickened on the rim of her hood before they fell down to merge with the ones falling from the sky.  Her hand went to her eyes, wiping away the moisture in them.

_ It’s just the rain, _ she thought with a sudden rush of pointless anger.  She sighed and forced it down, allowing the soft song of the rain around her to lull her again into peacefulness.  Time ticked away, counted not by clocks or watches, not by breaths and heartbeats, but by the endless impacts of the drops on the ground.

The pervasive hum of the rain and the hood over her head made his approach soundless and unseen, but she was aware of him.  She threw the last crust to the birds before her hand retreated to hide back beneath the slicker. Just as she didn’t have to turn her head to notice his presence, he didn’t have to look under the hood to see if it was really her.

They stood silently for a while, their hearts overwhelmed by the calming sounds, refreshing smells and conflicting emotions that streamed through them in an irresistible tide.

“Didn’t expect to find you here,” he said finally, still looking over the pond.

“It’s a beautiful place.”

She couldn’t see him but she could feel him as he nodded, his eyes following the birds.

Droplets drummed heavily on his umbrella.  A few loud honks from the bickering fowl were almost smothered by the steady drone of the rain.

“I wanted to be alone,” she said and turned her head to look at him.  “But I’m glad you’re here.”

He shifted closer and moved the umbrella to cover them both.  His hand went up and pushed the hood gently away from her head.  His thumb traced her eyebrow, the other fingers touching featherlike her cheek.  They were cold and wet, leaving behind a burning ache in their wake.

His hand dropped to his side and his eyes turned to gaze over the pond again.  She did the same, both now watching the birds slowly drifting away after having eaten all the food and concluding that there will be no more forthcoming.

Her slicker rustled as her hand searched for a way to emerge from under it and then closed, warm and soft, around his.  His hand relaxed and allowed her fingers to lace between his own, squeezing them gently once they were nestled in comfortably.  The rain pattered incessantly on the umbrella, the ground and the surface of the water.

“I love you, too,” she barely whispered.

“I know.”

She bowed her head.  She shouldn’t have said that.  She was leading him on and giving him hope, while at the same time being uncertain of herself.  She took a deep breath and looked at him.

“Gar…”

He turned to her, his eyes serious and affectionate.  She fought off the sudden desire to look away.

“I’m… still not sure, Gar.  I know what I feel, but I don’t know what I want.  I don’t want to hurt myself, and I don’t want to hurt you either.  I’m just… I can’t trust myself right now.”

Her eyes looked down again.  “I won’t be able to see you for a while,” she forced the words through her throat.  The dense curtain of falling water blocked all sights and sounds around them leaving them standing on an island of reality disconnected from the rest of the universe, populated only by the two of them and by the rain.

“Why?” came the quiet question.

“I was offered to play Tchaikovsky’s  _ Violin Concerto in D Major  _ almost immediately after Paris,” she said in as neutral a tone as she could muster, still avoiding his gaze.  “I will be practicing and preparing myself the next few weeks.”

Again his fingers squeezed tenderly.

“I’ll wait.”

She looked up, meeting his gaze.  Tiny wet jewels sparkled in her eyes; raindrops or tears, he couldn’t be certain.

* * *

 

Helmuth Eisenmann never liked  _ wunderkinder _ .  They were as a rule unpredictable, emotional and  _ undisciplined, _ something that the old-school German conductor simply could not tolerate.  He scowled again at the young girl, respecting her obvious talent and considerable skill, but wishing she could be more  _ consistent. _

_ “Nein, nein, Fräulein! _ Make up your  _ mind! _  Ve cannot follow you through ze entire spectrum of human emotions!”

Rachel stared at the floor, blushing.  As difficult as old Iron Man – the nickname whispered behind Eisenmann’s back not only because of his name, but also because of his iron-grey hair and hard, grey eyes, and mostly because of the almost militaristic way he directed the entrusted orchestras – as difficult and demanding as he was, she knew she could meet and exceed those demands.  Tchaikovsky’s  _ Concerto _ was well-known for being technically daunting, but she was making good progress in mastering it so far.  No, it was not the skill in her fingers that was causing problems; it was the passion of the old master’s music that was churning up her soul, uncovering and bringing up all her doubts and insecurities, tearing off the restraints over all the emotions and feelings that were whirling in her, from love to sorrow to hope to fear to joy to despair, all flashing through her too quickly and blindingly for any attempt to control them, sneaking through her hands and fingers to take shape in the music she made, correctly performed but emotionally a jumble of half-finished and semi-expressed sensations, a muddy, jarring, senseless, bewildering patchwork that left the conductor, the orchestra and any listener uncertain, unsatisfied and lost.

It was a good image of the chaos in her soul.  She swallowed and nodded.

“ _ Gut. _  Let us try zis part again.”

They began again and for a few minutes she was at her best, following Eisenmann’s baton and the collection of frowns and scowls he used to direct – ‘intimidate’, many snickered behind his back – the musicians into doing what he wanted them to do.

Then her eyes closed and her thoughts began wandering again.

_ Am I ready for this?  Can I trust him? Can I trust myself? _

_ What if he does it again?  Breaks my heart again? Maybe I should wait… _

_ Would he understand?  Would he be patient and wait?  How long? A month, a year? A lifetime? _

_ No, I can’t demand such a sacrifice from him.  I must come to terms with myself and decide what is it that I want. _

_ I’m afraid.  I’m afraid that he could hurt me… _

An icy feeling swept through her.

_ What if I hurt him? _

The memory of the pain she saw in his eyes when she snarled those ugly words at him stabbed into her chest.  The violin screeched.

Her eyes flew open and her face burned.  She withered beneath Eisenmann’s furious glare.

The grey-haired conductor lowered the baton slowly and placed it gently on the stand.

“ _ Folge mir, bitte, _ ” he said frostily and strode to the small office on the side of the auditorium, opening the door and waiting for her.

She followed him on wooden legs.  The First and Second Violinists exchanged concerned glances, careful not to be seen by the enraged German.  They have all heard the stories. Those who Eisenmann singled out for a “conversation” in his office usually came out in tears soon afterwards.

She stepped into the office.  He walked in after her and closed the door, then went to his desk and sat behind it, easing back into the chair and observing her carefully behind a scowl.  She stared at the floor, her face a furious red, her hands clenched tightly around the instrument and the bow.

Eisenmann was nonplussed.  This was a strange young woman, graced with obvious talent and skill, yet emotionally fragile.  Her youth, her innocence and her beauty reminded him so much of… His jaw set and he chased those thoughts away from his mind.

The anger had drained out of him, but he managed to keep his scowl on.  As much as he wanted to vent and scold her for her indiscipline, he found it impossible to do so.  He took a deep breath.

“ _ Persönliche Probleme? _ ” he asked, then shook his head and switched to English.  “Personal problems?”

She stood quiet and motionless, but he couldn’t miss the deepening of her blush.

_ Ich bin ein alter Idiot,  _ he sighed to himself.   _ I’m an old idiot. _

“Is it a…  _ Ein Jung – _ a young man?”

Her nod was almost imperceptible.  He grunted his understanding.

“Do you vish to have… a few days off?”

She looked at him, surprised.  She shook her head.

He lifted an eyebrow.  “Are you certain?”

Again the small nod.  

“Very vell.  But you must…  _ konzentrieren! _ ” he grumbled, then rose from the desk.

She finally found her voice.  “Thank you, Herr Eisenmann. I will.”

He opened the door for her.  “ _ Komm. _  Zere is much vork!”

* * *

 

_ There is much work to be done and little time to do it, _ Garfield mused as he poured all his skill and all his feelings into the instrument.  But his schedule held; the violin was already taking shape, and he couldn’t but feel proud of how it was turning out.  He would be able to finish just in time.

Victor visited him daily, making sure his friend was well.  As happy as he was that Garfield appeared much better, he couldn’t avoid a sense of unease.  Gar never mentioned Rachel any more, and he ignored the topic every time Vic brought it up. And yet today it was especially disquieting.

“Rachel’s playing Tchaikovsky’s  _ Violin Concerto _ next month,” he told his friend, trying to bait him out.

“I know,” Garfield said, not lifting his eyes from his work.  “She told me.”

“Told you?” Victor’s eyebrow shot up.  “I see.”

“I wonder if you do,” Gar said back, still keeping his eyes and hands busy with the instrument.

The large youth cleared his throat.  “I’ve… got a couple of tickets for it.  I mean, if y’all wanna –”

“No,” came the curt reply.  Garfield finally lifted his eyes and looked at his friend.  “I’ll be busy that evening. Take Sarah.”

A heavy weight pressed down on Victor’s chest.  Gar turned his attention back to the instrument, indicating that the conversation was over for him.  Victor rose, mumbled a goodbye and left the shop.

He took in a deep breath and looked at the sky.

_ I tried.  God knows, I tried. _

He shook his head sorrowfully and went home.

* * *

 

Gar waved to the theater security guard stationed at the service entrance.  The man nodded, acknowledging him. He had received no specific instructions, but he was well acquainted with Garfield Logan; it was not the first time the luthier was called up for an emergency repair or some last-minute servicing.  The lack of a heads-up was probably due to the urgency of the problem and the usual short-circuits between Maintenance, Operations and Security. He rolled his eyes and buzzed Garfield in with a smile. Gar returned the smile, walked in and looked at his watch.  Twenty more minutes. He’ll be there on time.

He had kept his answer to Victor obscure on purpose.  There was no way he would miss Rachel’s performance, but he didn’t want to do it in the company of anyone.  It was way too personal and private for him. And there was another reason.

He wound around backstage, knowing his way well, nodding his greetings to the staff that knew him well, heading for the dressing rooms.  Sounds of musical scales and short melodies came from everywhere; the musicians were already preparing themselves, warming up and loosening their fingers and getting into the proper state of mind.  He finally got to the door that had Rachel’s name on it. As soloist, she was assigned a private dressing room. It made what he wanted to do so much easier.

He knocked, hearing the sounds of a scale drift from inside.  The door opened and he found himself staring into the frowning face of Richard Grayson.

“Yes?”

He knew Grayson had nothing with Rachel, but still a sharp pang of the old jealousy stabbed into his guts when he saw that Rachel was in his company.

“I… have something for Miss Roth,” he said, fighting not to swallow, his throat dry for some reason.

“Give it to me, then.  She’s getting ready and I don’t think it’s a good idea to interrupt her.”

Garfield’s fluster mounted.  He  _ had _ to see Rachel, but this Cerberus was not allowing him in.  His confusion and anxiety combined with the still-smoldering traces of jealousy and became anger.

“No.  I have to present it to her personally.  I must see her –”

Richard’s eyes narrowed with suspicion.  “A journalist, aren’t you? You can’t see her now.  Forget about any exclusives. We may hold a quick conference after the concert, but –”

“I said,  _ I have to see her!  NOW! _ ” Gar snarled and pushed the door open, taking Grayson by surprise.  Enraged, Richard was just about ready to shout for Security and have this impudent piece of journalistic slime kicked out of the theater when Rachel’s voice made them both freeze.

“Gar?  Is that you?”

Both heads turned to her.  She came over and placed a hand on Richard’s arm.  “Why don’t you give us a few minutes? You could fetch Kori and have her help me with the makeup.  Please?”

Richard nodded, sent a final, suspicious glance at Garfield and left the dressing room.  Rachel closed the door, placed the violin in its case and turned to Garfield, straining to her utmost to keep her eyes calm and her face composed.  She lifted a querying eyebrow and waited.

Everything that Garfield wanted to say, everything he essayed over in his head, everything he practiced in front of the mirror so many times the last few days just for this occasion was wiped from his mind, catching fire and burning away to smoke and impalpable ash.  All he could was to stand there and stare into her eyes, speechless and breathless.

She realized her outward coldness confused and hurt him.  She closed her eyes and bowed her head, ashamed and pained.   _ Is this what it’s going to be like between us always?  Can I dare to even try? _

He shook himself off, no longer a prisoner in violet shackles.  He cleared his throat and lifted a hand holding a violin case.

“I… brought you this.  It’s for you.”

She opened her eyes and looked uncomprehendingly at the case.  Her gaze went up, then down again. She swallowed.

“Is that…”

He nodded.  “Yep. It’s the violin I was working on.  I wanted to… It’s yours, Rachel.”

Her fists balled up.  “I’m… That’s too much, Gar.  I can’t accept –”

“Rachel,” his voice was soft but irresistible.  She made herself be silent and look again into his eyes.  They were clear and affectionate, the way she best remembered them, the way she most loved them, the way they hurt the hardest.

“From the moment you asked me to watch as this violin was made, I knew two things.  First, that it would be my masterpiece. Second, that it would be yours.”

He offered the cased instrument, his eyes imploring.  She forced herself to take it, her hands shaking.

“Good luck tonight!” he said hoarsely, turned and almost ran away from her dressing room.

* * *

 

There were five minutes left before she had to be ready.  Kori was brushing Rachel’s hair, not because it needed it, but because she knew it calmed her friend down and helped her prepare mentally for what was waiting for her.

“Did Richard send Gar’s violin back to the Manor?” Rachel asked Kori, her eyes closed, the redhead’s gentle but strong hands in her hair subduing her inner turmoil.  “I don’t want to leave it here while I play, It could get stolen, or damaged, or…”

“There is nothing for you to have the worry about, friend Rachel.  Dear Dick has made all the required arrangements.”

Rachel sighed deeply.  “Good. I should go, it’s time.”

Kori beamed at her.  “Indeed it is.”

Rachel got up and went to the violin case.  Her hands moved to the clasps and froze.

“Kori…”

“Yes?”

The clasps sprung open.  She lifted the lid of the case.  Her eyes closed.

“Kori, this is not my violin.  Richard sent the wrong instrument to the Manor.  This is Gar’s violin.”

The redhead shrugged.  “Oh. I suppose he had the confusion, since both cases are identical.  They come from the same of the shops, yes?”

“Kori, this is  _ serious! _  I can’t play a concert with an unknown instrument!” Rachel shouted, feeling the panic rise and threaten to overwhelm her.

“Friend Rachel, I fail to see –”

“ _ NO! _ _ I can’t play this! _  We have to delay it, or call it off!  It’s not my violin, I don’t know it, I can’t –”

“Yes, you can,  _ Fräulein! _ ” a cold voice rang from the door, cutting through her panic.  “You are an  _ artist! _ _ Verstehen Sie? _ ”

“Maestro Eisenmann, I’m sorry, but –”

“ _ Kein Wort mehr!  _  Take ze instrument and come viz me!”

She hesitated, but Eisenmann’s eyes were merciless.  She picked up the violin and the bow in unsteady hands.  He took her firmly under her arm and guided her out of the dressing room and to the stage.

* * *

 

She was still uneasy, but the orchestral introduction did a good job of soothing her into focusing on the composition.  The first phrases of her solo were almost hesitant, perfectly dovetailing with the music. She played them with just the right amount of expectant apprehension, earning a quick nod from an eternally-frowning Eisenmann.

But as soon as her bow brought up the music from the strings, she became aware of the feelings buried in the wood singing out their harmony, a product as much of Garfield’s hands as of his heart.  There was no way she could’ve been deaf to it. The emotions imprisoned in the instrument flooded out and mingled with her own, the love, the sorrow, the pain; the hope and joy and despair. They rushed at her and lanced with sweet agony through her soul, wrapping around her heart and making it beat wildly, numbing the rationality of her mind and releasing her deepest desires.  And yet it was not an overwhelming flood of confused sentiments; it was a resonance with her own feelings, a pillar around which they could wind like vines and climb towards the sun before blossoming out in any color she wanted; the coal that kept the fire of her passion burning bright; the tiny water droplets in the air that broke up the light shining from her heart into a glorious rainbow that spanned the entire sky.  It was a meeting of skills and loves, of knowledges and hopes, one that she could mold and sculpt and express through her own art, bursting from her fingers in an irresistible explosion that could leave no soul untouched.

In a blinding flash of realization her mind understood that he had given her more than just an instrument, however skillfully constructed, no matter how masterfully crafted.  What he had given her was more even than his mind, heart and soul; it was his deepest identity, the uncovered and uncensored fullness of his desires and wishes and hopes; all his feelings for her, all that he suffered and treasured, all that he feared and yearned for.  She lost herself in his real gift, finally giving in, at last coming to terms with herself, soaring to ultimate heights where she could use everything she ever learned and knew and experienced and felt to shout out her love for him to the entire world, not caring or fearing or doubting any more.

She forgot about the public, forgot about the orchestra and about Eisenmann.  She played for  _ him, _ to tell him of all her love and all her longing and all her passion, to call him and bring him and be close to him, forever and wherever, to let him know that she heard and understood and accepted his real gift, and that she was gifting herself to him in return.

Everyone that heard her was entranced, the sheer fervor of her interpretation spearing straight into the core of the listener’s being, beyond and below any rationality and consciousness.  Eisenmann frowned and focused on making the orchestra follow her, knowing that she was beyond any of his attempts of guiding and controlling her.

Garfield was listening behind the curtain, completely dazed.  He heard immediately that she was playing his violin, and it astonished him, but his surprise was soon drowned by what he was hearing.  Just like she recognized what his real gift to her was, he understood what she was giving him in return. All of the joy and hope and exultation he felt in that moment; her music took it all and lifted it up and numbed his mind as it sent his heart soaring into the sky, raw and open and laid bare for her love to mingle with his own feelings and fill it again, and flood it and burn it and tear at it and make it whole again, his hands trembling and his knees weak but his eyes glowing with the primeval, feral joy that was crushing his soul under it impossible weight.

She played on for the almost forty minutes that the  _ Concerto _ lasted.  Tears were shining in the corners of her eyes, squeezed shut tight; her brow dotted with sweat, her face flushed with the feelings she was pouring out.  The bow trembled slightly with barely controlled eagerness through the periods where the orchestra took over for a few seconds to allow the soloist to rest the fingers, but she didn’t want or need rest; she needed to get it out, to shatter all restraints and to wrench her own heart out and shout it to the whole Universe and make everyone aware of it, to make  _ him _ aware of it.  Sheer joy and love was bursting from her, now in counterpoint with the orchestra, now together; she carried them all with the inexorable power of her music.  The finale came at last and swept them all away with it, until she ended it, breathing heavily, disoriented and not really certain of where she was or what she was doing.

There was no reaction from a stunned audience for a couple of seconds, then the entire theater shook with applause and cheering.  The Second Violinist nudged the First and gestured with his bow towards Eisenmann. The dour man who was widely rumored never to have smiled even at his own mother now had a wide smile on his face as he stepped towards Rachel and embraced her warmly, then turned to the audience and bowed together with her.  

The cheering and applause lasted for quite a while.  Richard and Kori showed up on stage with armfuls of flowers, followed by Victor and another girl, probably his girlfriend.  They all hugged her and congratulated her, and she answered to everybody with a somewhat forced smile. As happy as she was for them being with her, she needed someone else.  Her performance exhausted her and right now the only thing she wanted to do was to find Garfield and speak to him. She suspected he was nearby, but she couldn’t see him in the audience.

He was suddenly in front of her, his eyes shining, taking her into his arms and kissing her deeply.  She closed her eyes and let herself go, melting into his kiss, drowning herself in his love.

“Ahem!” someone coughed.  “As much as we’re all happy for ya, y’all should really get a room, y’know?” Victor grumbled.  They parted, gazing into each other’s eyes, a sudden playful spark jumping between them like an electric arc.

She placed the bow under her arm and gripped his hand, pulling him away.  Her friends looked at each other, some surprised, some smirking, and followed.  Dragging a starry-eyed Garfield behind her, she went into her dressing room and busied herself with placing the violin carefully into its case.  The sound of a throat clearing came from the door. She looked up to see Richard standing there, the others clustered behind him.

“I was, uh, thinking of taking all of you to a celebratory dinner, you know, so…”

She glanced at Garfield and noticed the edge of his lips curl up.

“I don’t think so.  Gar and I’ll take a rain check on that.  But you can do me a big favor!” she said with a glint in her eye.

Richard smirked.  “Oh?”

“Please ensure we are not disturbed for the next two…” she looked quickly at Gar again.  “Make that the next four hours.”

Richard chuckled and closed the door.  Gar moved nearer and embraced her.

“Just one question,” he said, slightly hoarse.  “How can he…”

“He owns the theater!” she said and kissed him.

 


End file.
